


The Stark Legacy

by LexiTRone



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Bucky Barnes Feels, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Character Study, Extremis (Marvel), F/M, Family Drama, Gen, Heavy Angst, Irondad, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Mistress, Namor - Freeform, Parent Tony Stark, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Protective Steve Rogers, Tigershark - Freeform, Tony Stark Has Issues, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 33
Words: 85,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28623357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LexiTRone/pseuds/LexiTRone
Summary: Dr. Strange made a different choice, but surviving is not the same as winning. In this universe, Samantha Morgan Stark grows up trying to make her father proud, but what is she really growing up to be? Asset or liability, hero or villain: must she only choose one or will she have a choice at all? Comic characters added to MCU. Set Post IW, AU from Endgame.Mild Language and Violence/Battle Gore
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Sharon Carter/Steve Rogers
Kudos: 24





	1. Reality: Storytime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened to Tony in this universe after the Snap?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brand new to Ao3, and I'd really love whatever feedback you can offer. Mostly I hope you enjoy! Rules of the universe include: super soldiers do not age and, aside from a very few things, this is exactly the same as all events until the end of Infinity War. I split the whole story into six parts named after the Infinity Stones.

_**Sokovia Accord Enforcement Council Transcript** _

Trial A0843 Findings 

Date: Friday, January 13th, 2040

Conclusion of presiding senior member, Robert Cushing, is as follows:

—— _Samantha Morgan Stark, in light of all evidence and testimony presented, I and the Council find you ungovernable and deem your power too dangerous to allow use by any entity on- or off-world. You have become too great a liability for the Council to allow your signature to the Accords, and since you have already operated with abilities outside the purview of this governing body, the Council cannot in good faith trust your adherence henceforth to its rules._

 _Therefore, we hereby insist your abilities be stripped. Should there be no satisfactory cure for your abilities, we conclude no other option than to terminate_ ——

**Part I: Reality**

  
CHAPTER ONE— May 2025

  
“Sam, it's time for bed,” Pepper Potts said for the third time, so far, that evening.

  
“Mom, story,” four-year-old Samantha Stark pleaded with her mother, raising her wiggling fingers into the air. Pepper tucked the quilt around her daughter as she did every night, queuing Sam to slap her arms down, sealing the edges.

  
“Ok, one story. Let me guess _witch_ one,” Pepper joked. There was only one story Sam ever wanted to hear, over and over again, so her mom made adjustments occasionally to keep it ‘fresh.’ Sam’s brown eyes were alight with excitement as Pepper began.

“Years ago, your father was trapped by an evil man from space. Dad was all alone, far from home, on a ship with no way back.” She flicked the lights off for effect. “It was so dark and cold out in space, and so very quiet. Your father kept trying to get home until the air was thin and he felt so, so tired.” Sam’s eyes were heavy too. “And that was when he heard the voice,” Pepper continued. “It said: you are meant to go on and save so many others. When he looked up, Dad saw this beautiful witch dressed all in green. She raised her hand up high above him,” she did the same, “and threw a potion to the floor. When all the light cleared, the entire ship had been magically transported to just above Earth. He was home and soon saved by his friends. If it hadn’t been for the good, green witch, your father wouldn’t have been alive to save half the people in the universe,” Pepper finished, leaning forward to kiss her daughter and add, “or have you, love.”

Little Sam fluttered her feet under the covers. “Daddy always saves everyone!”

“Yes, love, he did. Now go to bed, please.”

Tony Stark popped in, backlit by the hallway glow. “It was really more like a bioluminescent alien that was green, not wore green,” he mumbled.

“We are not talking to her about this now,” Pepper whispered harshly back.

“Right, no nightmares from talk of aliens and monsters…”

“Mommy,” Sam asked sleepily, “are all witches good like the one that saved Daddy? Like Aunt Wanda?”

“Time to sl—“

“No, kiddo,” Tony interrupted, “but we do call good people things like friends, teammates, allies, partners, etc., and we call bad people different things like villains, enemies, and monsters.”

“What makes them bad?”

“Well, monsters are people, sometimes they won’t look like you and me, that hurt you or your family and friends.”

“Like the monsters under the bed? Big Sam said that’s why he flies so high, to get away from monsters.”

Tony turned to Pepper. “We haven’t fired Wilson yet? Write that on the to-do,” he said before turning back to his daughter. “But,” he assured her with a gentle grip to the arm, “there are no monsters under your bed.”

“Goodnight, love.” Pepper headed to the door, calling “I’ll be back by tomorrow night to tuck you in.”

Tony’s brow raised as he stood to leave. “I thought Bruce was gonna go to B-site to handle it?”

“Well, he’s got a lot on his plate here, and I’m perfectly capable of checking in with the supervisors about shipments, containment, and placement. If you recall,” she shot back in hushed tones, “I have some experience wrangling self-obsessed male scientists. Plus it's one day, Tony.”

“I’m unfamiliar with that previous boss of yours, but I have heard that women in your condition should take it easy. Strong,” he rambled, “stubborn women often take on too much work in order to—“

Pepper spoke over her husband to say “I love you, Sam,” and made to shut the door with them outside it. Tony tossed in an ‘I love you’ as well after a glare from his wife, adding “I said that already. I did. She knows anyway, now what about—“

The door shut with a click.

Pepper did not return the next day.


	2. Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A service is held for Pepper Potts in lieu of answers surrounding her death. Lil'Sam doesn't understand what's happening.

CHAPTER TWO— June 2025

Sam peeked out the window to see the long line of black cars in the drive of Avengers Headquarters. The view from Natasha’s room offered a good spot to watch people arrive while a black dress was laid out for her. There came Peter Parker then the Barton family, Steve and Sharon Rogers, and Maria Hill. Happy Hogan greeted each arrival, signaling in the direction of the memorial.

“Come, Sam,” Nat interrupted, “go ahead and put this on.” She checked a box by the door, adding, “and have you seen your shoes?”

“They hurt my feet,” Sam complained automatically.

“I know, but you only have to wear them for a little while.” Nat sat at the corner of the bed and reached to stroke the girl’s hair. “We should brush your hair before we go down.”

The young Stark had her father’s dark features, and her plethora of hair tangled easily. Natasha was worried she would hurt Sam by pulling so hard, but the girl seemed unfazed.

“Nat?”

“Yes, Sam?”

“Is Uncle Thor gonna be here? He’s funny,” she asked, smiling.

Nat sighed. Sam was excited to see all the family friends, unable to grasp what this occasion was. “I’m not sure, doll, but we won’t be playing today, okay?” She put down the brush, spotting the shoes Sam had tried to hide stuffed beneath the side table. Nat dreaded how long this day would be.

There was a knock at the door, and through the crack, Dr. Banner’s voice gently rolled in. “It’s about time, ladies.”

Silently, Sam was rushed down huge windowed halls, everything suspended by gleaming metal and bright concrete. There was no casket in the room, just rows and rows of chairs. As she looked around, Sam seemed to just miss the gaze of everyone there, and when she found her father, his eyes were down, covered by sunglasses. Immediately to Tony’s right, Uncle Peter stood, and once he noticed little Sam, Pete swooped in to pick her up. She flashed a giant smile which he returned effortlessly. Natasha kept her face stony and shrank ever so slightly as Bruce put his hand on her shoulder. It was a sea of black swirling under white concrete, and even though Sam was propped up by this lanky man, no one met her eyes. Every cough sounded like thunder, echoing off all the glass.

Sam, feeling tired, bored, and hungry, started searching for strawberry blond amongst the crowd. As she always did when she couldn’t find her mother, She reached for her father’s glasses and said, “Daddy, I’m hungry.”

Before her hand closed around one corner of the wireframe, Tony had swatted her away with a strangled “please.” The skin-to-skin contact made an audible slapping noise, leaving Tony more agitated than ever. He ordered Happy to take her outside, and while Peter made a very small protest, Sam was pulled from him and led out a side door. There was nothing there but more glass, metal, and concrete.

“Wait right here,” Happy ordered, flustered, moving quickly up and down the hall, searching for chairs. “Stay there,” he sounded down the hall, disappearing around a corner.

Sam leaned her forehead against the window. It was overcast outside but bright, so she squinted, pressing her wrinkled nose against the glass. She fogged it with her breath several times before she heard Happy coming back.

He was slightly out of breath when he said, “all the chairs are in there, sweetheart. How hungry are you?”

“I’m tired,” Sam replied.

“You just told your dad—never mind,” Happy trailed off, looking about. Children were not his forte. “Tell you what, Sam,” he began, lowering his hands to his knees, “you stay right out here, sleep on the floor if you want, and be as quiet as you can, and after I get to say…a few words…” He stood straight up again, looking back at the double doors before continuing. “Then we will all go get some food. Does that sound okay?” He nodded his head before Sam even opened her mouth.

“I’ll be safe right here?” Sam mumbled.

Happy paused a notable change in his expression, eyes not quite focused on her anymore. He sniffed, nodded once more, and turned around. “Right there,” he half-sobbed then opened the door just enough to squeeze through.

Muffled speech in low tones wafted down the hall. It was soothing, like Dad reading quickly through a bedtime story while adding more side comments than the book was long. Sam sank into a seated position then put her hand down to scoot towards the window. She felt sand beneath her palm. She looked, realized it was dust, fine and pale as the concrete, and looked for more. Its texture was soft against the polished floor, leaving a defined trail when seen from low to the ground.

Ten feet away were larger grains and then just at the corner of the hall were pebbles scattered with the dust. Sam stood slowly, sure to stay quiet as asked, and followed the dusty path. She was disappointed the rocks became no bigger three halls later. The trail ended in front of yet another glass door, this one covered in fine dust nearly three feet high, finger smears around an invisible edge, and just at eye-level a blue pinpoint light parallel with the thick pane. The dust reflected the blue on its right side, but when Sam shifted her head, she couldn’t see any light. Curious, she pressed the sliding side so she could look more closely, but she quickly saw yet another light just inside the door. This one was red and flashing with letters above D-O-O-R-U-N-S-E-C-U-R-E-D.

Sam looked around. Upon the counter by the nearest table sat a half-full glass of the deep green drink her father always served to people. She was never allowed to have any. Since no one was around, Sam stretched to reach the glass.

It was still cold. The condensation made the fine glass slippery, and it crashed to the floor below her small hands. She knew someone would be mad she’d made such a mess, so Sam frantically looked around for something to clean it up. There were closed containers of bigger rocks under the next table labeled S-A-M-P-L-E-D. She recognized her name, then above them, Sam saw a cloth cover over a few more bins. After ripping it to the floor and stomping down to soak up the green, huge saturated spots appeared where she stepped. Fascinated by the shapes and color, Sam dropped to her hands and knees to watch her prints appear. Sometimes when she slapped a dry spot, she could hear the squelch of the wet. The last time she hit the floor, she cut her hand. Pink dripped down to the faint green splotching, and as she slipped trying to get up using only one hand, she sliced her knee on more glass.

Suddenly she was really afraid. The floor was mostly dry, albeit covered in faint smears, but someone was bound to see things were not where they belonged. Perhaps if she put the sheet back, they wouldn’t be as mad.

Sam tossed the cover back over the rock-filled bins. She looked down at the remaining glass on the floor. There seemed to be only heavy things on the counter, nothing small enough to push the shards, so she started pushing them with her feet. Her shoes were already hurting, so when she was done, she yanked them off to tuck against the cabinet lip, hoping to hide the glass.

She could hear footsteps now. To hide, Sam ran back to the last table, farthest from the door, and wiggled into a thick jumble of cables draped from ceiling to floor.

“I’m not troubling Tony with this. The upgrades were already postponed because of the holding site. Really?” Bruce moaned, standing at the faulty lock. “Undone by dust…” He continued to tap at the screen flashing red letters while speaking to the security officer who accompanied him. “How much longer do you think the memorial will go? I’ve got to get back to testing—“

Sam could hear her breathing. She anxiously covered her mouth, pushing a few cords out of her way.

“Whose shoe made that?” Bruce said suddenly.

She shimmied her way farther into the cables, hearing tiny pops when she pulled a foot forward. Some connections became unhooked. Several instruments on the tables made different beeping sounds.

“What the hell?” Bruce turned to check while calling the guard, “Is that blood?!”

The dust on her hands tickled her nose, and no matter how hard she tried to hold it in, the sneeze shot through Sam’s sinuses. A clump of plugs came loose behind her head with the force. Lights went out and the minimal glow of security lights made Bruce’s shadow look larger than life.

“STOP,” came the guttural scream from across the lab, but when Sam tried to push her way out, something sparked above her.

“Code Green,” the security guard bellowed into his comms, “Main Lab now!”

She tumbled against one of the metal corners of a table, scraping her head on the way down. She hit the floor hard as Banner’s form shifted. The shadow got larger. Sam could smell smoke. More sparks flew, momentarily lighting the hulking figure easily tossing tables aside. The fire-suppression system triggered, making it impossible to hear anything else. Sam started to sob.

Hulk’s face lowered towards hers, his back flush with the spraying ceiling, beams above them creaking and bending.

“It’s my fault,” Sam screamed as loud as she could, “I’m sorry!”

Figures ran up to the glass; the door had automatically sealed with the alarm.

“Banner, back off! Hulk get away from her,” came the collective muffled thumping of watchers, helpless behind the barrier, then the terrible, piercing explosion of shattering glass.

Hulk didn’t move. He simply leered, watching her cry, an expression more akin to annoyance plastered across his broad face. Captain Barnes’ shield collided squarely with the massive jaw. Bucky’s huge vibranium arm promptly followed, connecting with Hulk’s orbital bone. Sam watched the impact ripple across his green skin in the strobe of lights, confusion in the wide, pained eyes. She was sure she heard the snap of a bone, but whose?

The two tumbled to the other corner of the lab, dragging tables and equipment into a pile beneath them. Bucky slammed his full weight over and over again into the now shrinking figure.

“Stop, he’s my friend,” Sam shrieked, throwing herself a few feet closer to them. She could hear a growing chorus calling her name directly behind her.

Bucky lifted his head, flicking the long hair back, dripping from sprinklers, fist raised high in the air.

“You’re a monster!” Sam’s vision swung wildly even though she had stopped stumbling forward. “It was my fault,” she whimpered, falling forward, blood trickling down her face and neck. Everything went dark.


	3. Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony must decide what to do after his daughter is injured on his watch.

CHAPTER THREE—June 2025

If there was ever a time when Tony wished he’d been in the lab _more_ , this was it. The only remaining pieces of rubble large enough to test from Pepper’s last known location in the containment wing were now useless. Any trace of his wife’s remains was impossible to distinguish from her daughter’s DNA with certainty.

Closure was impossible, and Tony would never know the truth.

“I’m so sorry,” Bruce admitted, “but Sam’s blood is on everything. It’s all contaminated. We don’t… I can’t tell you what happened that day to cause the explosion.”

Stark stood with arms crossed. He mumbled under his breath every so often, things like “why weren’t you there” and “why wasn’t it me.” He kept fidgeting, walking over to the windows and glancing down halls, all as if jonesing for a fix. But Pepper was gone, and the fix would never come. Cold turkey.

Bruce ended the silence. “Sam’s going to be fine though—“

“How can I do this?” Tony burst. “Her mother’s gone—” Tony watched Barton approach from the living quarters’ hall, “—and my kid nearly got herself killed on day one with Daddy!” He finished with venom for himself. “Seriously, Doc—“

“Tony, Hulk has never attacked a chi—“

“It doesn’t make any difference. Same problem! What am I gonna do with a kid? By myself?! What can I do? Retire to the country? That’s more Bird’s thing,” he directed at Clint.

“Really, Tony? I’m not even the one who flies,” Hawkeye replied, rolling his eyes. “She just needs some time to heal. Few scrapes and bruises. My kids get worse all the time. Things will settle down—“

Tony lunged forward to Clint’s face. “When have we _ever_ been guaranteed safety, huh? Who’s out there giving us a head’s up for some days off? I just wanna know so I can mark it on my calendar. Gotta get a jump start on vacation planning. I’m thinking Disney.”

He was spiraling out of control, his breaths short and fast. A Hulk was sitting on his chest, crushing him. Words were stringing together in his dry mouth even he didn’t understand

Banner tried to offer tangible information. “No one has claimed responsibility. Containment could have been deliberately targeted, but it could just be an accident…”

“It’s nobody’s fault,” Clint tried to yell over the other two, “so you just need to make sure she’s safe from now on, okay? That’s the best dads can ever do.”

“Because obviously I’m Father of the Year and can be trusted with her?! Pepper was the real parent.” Tony collapsed against the wall, shaking his head. “I can’t do this. You know me. Is she safe with me? Because I don’t think so!”

“Alright,” Clint said in his best soothing voice. How could he calm a grieving husband and terrified father? He remembered the instinct to fight for his family came easily but sitting still and confronting reality did not. Plus, Tony was much worse at self-reflection than Hawkeye. “You both need some time. Why don’t Laura and I take Sam for a while? Sam will have other kids around and plenty of space—“ he paused to consider their location “—that doesn’t have the makings of a bomb in every room. Nate would love to have a friend around, too. How about that?”

Tony looked at the closed infirmary door, and after a long pause, he made an odd, rounded nod, blurting, “she can’t be here.” He pushed himself up and walked off in the opposite direction.

* * *

“I wouldn’t do that. He's still pretty pissed,” Natasha advised, moving between Captain Barnes and the door.

“Stark needs to know I would never endanger—”

“He does know, but,” she hardened her eyes to the soldier, “this is a terrible time to go remind him that someone else saved _his_ daughter.”

Bucky shifted his gaze from the door to the petite woman before him. “I was just closer. He had enough to worry about. He—”

“Doesn’t get to bury his wife?” She stopped his progress forward with a hand on his chest.

“If I hadn’t kept my comms on—“

“If you were friendlier to Pepper or anyone, you’d have been too invested—“

“If I got down there a minute later due to schmoozing the grieving, you mean? What even happened at Containment?! We have no active threats.”

Natasha silenced him with a look. “Do you want me to take your mind off it?” Her honey words drizzled sweetly as she took in the details of his face. Bucky was stone, his own focus flickering back and forth between her deep blue eyes.

She drew her hand away from his chest. She swallowed. “So you've decided…That’s it?”

Nat tried to read him like a book but the pages were all out of order. There were hints of fear, confusion, longing, even pain in an otherwise blank expression. She knew what he learned to hide, she knew he could be more convincing if he wanted, but she also knew _this_ was different. Bucky was being as honest as he could be by letting her see the rat’s nest in his brain. Nat remembered the feeling well.

“You are not the monster they made you,” she said, lifting her hand up to his cheek. He let it touch him for the briefest instant then pulled away.

“But I _was_ and I _am_ capable of the worst.” Bucky slipped past her and flashed through the doorway, heading towards the grounds, not the infirmary.

“James,” Nat called after him, but she stopped herself. She couldn't think of more to say that she hadn't already argued for months.


	4. Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The annual awkwardness of the holidays is upon the Avengers.

CHAPTER FOUR—December 2033

Sam sat quietly with Nathaniel at the far end of the table while the adults chatted. She pushed the last bites of her meal around the plate, bored, but still said nothing to Nate.

At the head of the table, replacing her silverware in excitement, Laura Barton chirped, "Cooper and Lila will come home for Christmas next week."

"Wonderful! How is college treating them?" Natasha asked. Bruce sat beside her, seeming doubly excited to focus on his food.

"Coop might be too busy trying his hand at dating," Clint replied, rolling his eyes above a cheeky smile, "but Lila is kind of a wiz at poli-sci, which, of course, I don't understand a word of."

"Ever the diplomat," Laura mocked, laying a hand over his.

"Mom," Nate whined, "please let me go upstairs." He dropped his fork dramatically on an empty plate.

Laura pursed her lips but nodded. Nate shot up the stairs in his best Quicksilver impression. Laura turned back to Natasha. "They haven't been getting along lately. There's been some…issues at school."

Samantha watched him the whole way up the stairs.

Natasha shaded her face towards Laura and very quietly asked "how is she doing?"

Laura's eyes flicked across the table.

" _She_ can hear you," Sam replied, turning back to her food.

"Those idiots are bullies," Clint cut in, "and I would ask Tony about it but—it's delicate."

Sam sat staring across the table. "They call me Iron Orphan because my father doesn't give a shit about me."

"Sam!" Laura snapped. "Language."

Natasha snorted. Bruce nudged her but cracked a smile.

"I shouldn't be going there anyway," Sam continued. "My teachers made six mistakes last week—that I told them about—and I'm _bored_."

"We discussed this, Sam," Clint turned. "You already take classes above Nate, and he's five years older. You can't just show up at a college."

Lil'Sam dropped her own fork. "I can if I tell them my last name—"

Laura slammed her hand down on the table, but, ashamed of her outburst, made it as if she were cleaning up the plates.

Natasha blushed very, very slightly.

Bruce perked up at Sam's gumption. "What are you interested in learning about?"

Sam looked at him, a tiny Tony with softer features. "I enjoy biology and chemistry, but they won't let me take the real classes for microbiology and organic chemistry yet. They've kept me in a lower math class deliberately, just so they can refuse me the next grade level."

Clint rubbed his face with one hand, landing with his chin in his palm. Laura's smile was strained as she took some dishes to the kitchen.

"I'm fascinated by mechanics, but Uncle Clint is afraid the mower will eat my hand. I've finished all the books in the house, even Lila's college textbooks she left." Sam became agitated, quickly saying, "now they won't let me research equations my dad and grandpa worked on in, like, the eighties, just for something to do!"

"Yeah," Clint said to Bruce, " _that_ was four months ago, and I haven't heard the end of it."

Bruce's interest remained peaked. "What were you looking up?"

"Isn't most of their work still classified," Nat mumbled.

"I'm twelve," Sam croaked, "and you make me go to school—fine. But do I have to be _bored stupid_?! What if it takes them so long to teach me something new that my whole life is wasted waiting for them to learn something I didn't already figure out?"

The ferocity with which Lil'Sam argued had the adults leaning away in their chairs. Silence fell over the table, interrupted only by the tapping sound of dishes in the sink. Nat went to the kitchen with another few plates.

Laura gave an exasperated look.

Moments later Clint and Bruce joined them.

"It's fine," Bruce whispered, "I'm letting her look at some stuff on my tablet."

"Now, I love that girl, but…" Laura said, hushed, "what do we do? She is basically smarter than everyone in this house already."

Clint snorted at the understatement.

"She's almost a teenager." The mother of three made a strangling gesture in mid-air and half-growled. "We can't treat her like an adult, can we?! That's not fair." She looked to her husband for an answer he did not have.

Clint shrugged. "Look, enhanced humans are popping up out of the sea now. We're talking about Atlantis—didn't see that coming—and new threats Star Lord asks us about. It's a mess. I can't get Tony to sit still to ask him about it."

"He hasn't asked?" Nat's face dropped, though she would never fain surprise at the obvious response.

Laura looked desperately at Bruce. " _This_ is us slowing her down. _This,"_ she waved towards the other room. "Everyday."

Clint shook his head. "If I mention her even at all, Tony says 'that's great' and changes the subject."

Sam appeared in the doorway, handing Bruce's tablet back. "I'm sorry I was rude at dinner, Auntie," she said to Laura.

"S'more," Clint sighed, rubbing his forehead again, "we are doing our best here."

"Oh, honey," Laura added, "I know you're upset about school and those kids, but it will get better."

The girl shrugged. "Uncle Bruce," Sam said turning to the surprised guest, "if possible, I'd like this—" she motioned towards his tablet "—I mean, one of my own for Christmas. I think it would be easier to learn than classes at school."

Bruce looked at this young girl's glassy brown eyes. It was Howard, Anthony, and Samantha asking all at once, and if he knew anything about the personality behind those eyes, she needed a problem to solve, data to swim in, and a pile of extraneous detail to sort through. She'd come up with something impossible and make it happen, but she needed to be given some free rein and probably a smoothie.

"I'll go to bed now. Goodnight." Sam left without waiting for another reply. _Also some social skills,_ Bruce thought.

There was silence in the kitchen.

"When was the last time a Stark made anything easy," Nat finally muttered.

It was clear that Natasha attempted to decorate Sam's room at Headquarters. There were three strings of colored lights, one around the door frame, one woven between photos across the dresser, and one carefully framing the faux window above the bed. It was a projection; most of the living quarters at HQ were inner rooms for safety, and in a few years, Sam might have seen the irony in that. For now, staring at the mimicked outdoors was just as entertaining as the real thing. She was always at the safe house with the Bartons, always watching fallow fields and wildflowers, watching Laura raise her kids.

It wasn't that Samantha envied them as much as she felt empty, blank, and plain. Learning made sense. Learning filled space with knowledge, time with history, mind with purpose. What Sam didn't know was her family, where she came from.

Regular internet searches revealed a plethora of dramatic stories about her playboy father and almost nothing about her mother except a copious number of references to her clothing. Pepper Potts wore power suits, lots of blue, and high heels, and the daughter of Pepper Potts looked nothing like Pepper Potts.

Samantha Stark didn't look particularly nice in blue. She did not have bright features, or light eyes, or golden hair. She did not seem to be sprouting tall and shapely. She wasn't in hundreds of pictures with Tony Stark. She did not have Tony Stark's love.

Sam looked over at the photos on the dresser, all of which were at least eight years old when there came a knock on the door.

There he was: Tony Stark, shoulders' squared and stone-faced.

"Ok, kid, time for presents and dinner. Ready?"

Sam nodded. His voice wasn't even familiar to her. By phone alone, she could distinguish between Nat, Wanda, Sharon, Steve, Big Sam, Bruce, and Peter Parker. Turned out Sam had one time actually spoken to Nick Fury, but he simply and quickly said "give me Clint." Not a particularly fun or friendly man, it seemed.

Sam slid off the bed and walked to the hall as requested. Her father kept in front of her, looking down and to the side to ensure she was following.

"Are you tired from the drive?"

"Not really. Nat let me watch some old funny movies on the way," Sam replied, trying to smile.

"Really? What'd you watch? Airplane? Tommy Boy? Happy Gilmore?" It was the first time he turned his face towards her in full. Sam side-stepped into the elevator just as the doors closed.

"Finding Nemo and the singing animals one," she mumbled.

Tony's head hung a little lower. "Right," he said, grinding his teeth. The elevator stopped, and the two walked out into the warmer light of a decorated tree. "You gonna be a singer, then?"

"No, sir, I don't sing—"

"Don't call me that. Why would you call me that, huh?" He bristled and turned. "I barely called my father that, or 'dad,' but he definitely deserved being irritated by formality. Or so I thought…" He trailed off, shoving his hands in his pockets. Tony resumed walking faster, and narrowly missed running directly into Dr. Banner.

He asked Bruce if the room was ready before disappearing inside.

Bruce smiled. "You're gonna like this, I promise."

The large room was filled with falling snow, or what looked like snow was falling, and it was pure magic. Unable to help herself, Sam beamed and jumped a little. The Parker children, seven and four years old, ran around excitedly, but Sam barely noticed. She stared up at the grey ceiling, fascinated that the illusion held, looking for projectors. Briefly, the giant, ear-to-ear smile was back, a breathy laugh escaped Sam as she spun in the flurries. As if affected by the wind her movement generated, the bits scattered. She clasped her hands over her chest. It was perfect Christmas, as promised.

Tony stood behind the small wet bar in the corner, pouring himself a whiskey, watching. Her coloring was all him, that was obvious, but the _laugh_ … that, the smile, and the way she put up her hands in happiness was all Pepper. It was all precise, genuine, and feminine, simultaneously precious and terrifying. He couldn't stand to look at her, not for too long. Bits, flashes kept creeping in. He wanted to just keep going. Next project, next problem, next fight. He'd seen too many narrowly-missed, world's-end scenarios rip apart his bubble of existence. What separated him from the abyss? It used to be Pepper, but nothing was safe near him. It hurt too much for Samantha to be around anyway.

"Any takers?" Tony looked around, shaking the bottle gently. Bruce, ever sober, did not even glance over. Natasha mouthed 'later' while shaking her head and settling onto the couch. Peter raised a finger which Tony completely ignored, pouring himself an additional two fingers. "More for me," he toasted.

"It's a _shame_ more of the team couldn't make it," Wanda said as she entered, floating presents she brought to hover just out of reach of the Parkers' hands. "This," she gestured to the snow, "is a nice touch."

"I thought the kids would like it," Tony replied. He met Sam's eyes but found her inscrutable.

"Present time," Natasha declared, queuing Wanda to release the packages. Maximoff found herself in a seat next to Samantha.

"I can't wait!" Bruce jumped up, alarming the pair seated beside him.

Nat unclenched quickly, a small lift in the corner of her red lips. "Chill out, Bruce. I got you the same as last year anyway."

"Shucks," Tony exclaimed, "I got him wet wipes, too."

"Tone, not again," Bruce whined. He handed a slim silver package to Sam, then went back under the tree for more presents for the Parkers.

"Gotta keep big guy calm, happy, and squeaky clean," Tony added, breaking his grin to take another swig.

Sam found what she thought was a side of the tape and made to slide a nail beneath it when she heard a click. The outside vanished, deconstructing itself to reveal a Next-Gen Stark tablet.

"Fully loaded with texts on basically every science," Bruce blurted, giddy as a schoolboy.

The joy blossomed over her whole face as Sam lunged to hug Bruce on the opposite couch. "It's perfect," she squealed, among other unintelligible things, "thank you!"

The Parkers continued to shred paper and boxes as if they were dinosaurs feasting on their prey. Tony thought back to previous Christmases, ones where Sam sat just as patiently, entertaining the younger kids, sipping hot chocolate, and quietly watching movies. Tony thought proudly of Samantha's comfort with silence and stillness. He'd never tripped over her or her things, never had to help with homework, never been interrupted during a project. Tony had never given Howard that kind of space and satisfaction, yet Tony felt as though without those memories, there weren't many memories at all. The speed at which she ran over to show gratitude…she had never done that for Tony either.

"Well then I have a surprise for you, kiddo," Tony jealously yelled without prompt. He almost shocked himself with the force of his declaration. "Follow me!"

As he got to his feet, he realized everyone in the room was staring at him, so he added, "carry on. Just me and Sam."

Storage Sub-Basement E was the farthest point into HQ that Sam had ever seen. It took two separate elevators and a scaffold-like staircase to get down to its entrance. It was so hard to get to that there wasn't even a security code to open the door, which instead required zero electricity and sported a spinning wheel as if in a bank or submarine. No one else made the trek down with them, and Sam was almost positive from the darkness and dust that no one ever had before. Tony still had no real clue what the surprise was.

They made it to the door. "Inside here," he started, "is all old tech from me and my father." Tony spun the handle and gave it a heavy tug. "You can pick out one thing to…play with."

Despite the obvious misunderstanding of how old Sam was and how to speak to someone that age, she was excited. Her eyes went comically wide, and her mouth slacked open.

"Really?" Sam held her breath.

Tony flung open the door with great drama and flicked the lights on inside. He covered his ears too late to smother the piercing scream Sam let loose. When he recovered his hearing, he called in after the blur who zipped past him. "One thing!"

It wasn't the storage for any Iron Man or viable tech from his father; this stuff was so old that the real-life, human Jarvis boxed it up with Howard none the wiser. If Samantha could only pick one thing from inside, odds were she would pick the most advanced paperweight known to man—and still be overjoyed. However, Howard Stark historians and enthusiasts would have died to place even one piece of it in a glass case above a gold plaque. Tony figured the same joy may apply to a kid with a vested interest in the family.

 _Genius_ , Tony repeated in his head, as he often did.

He pulled up his retractable screen and flipped through his email and messages. He took several minutes to zip through threat-assessments and dossiers, highlighting parts for Nat and Captain Barnes, approving an updated schematic for Banner, and then it occurred to Tony that there _might_ be some dangerous stuff inside.

When he walked in to see what Sam had come up with, he was slightly offended that his daughter was not knee-deep in deconstructing some machine to see its inner workings. Sam, hands clasped behind her back, stood bent over, carefully and methodically inspecting each item.

"Have you even… _touched_ anything?" Tony asked confused.

"Of course not," Sam chirped, snapping upright.

Tony squinted suspiciously. "Are we even related," he mumbled, the rebutted, "never mind. You haven't found anything you're interested in?" He surveilled the room, finding at least six items he wanted to refurbish in that cursory glance.

Sam indecisively opened and closed her mouth. "Yes," she said hesitantly.

"But you haven't even touched anything? Not a tinkerer, are you?" After no immediate reply, he made to leave. "Fine. Pick your present, and let's get back for hot chocolate and dinner."

Sam plucked a small, metal-encased drive from a few feet away. It was so heavy for its size and rattled as if something fell loose inside. Before going back to the staircase, Tony took a moment to flip the drive over in his hands and admire the perfectly useless piece of junk she'd chosen. He hadn't seen a power cord that fit this technology in his lifetime. He was pleased with himself for thinking of such a quick solution to ensuring he'd made the best impression with this gift with the least effort. It had only cost him the time and energy to walk from one end of the facility to the other.

_Genius._


	5. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Football at the Rogers' Ranch. Natasha tries to nudge Tony in a fatherly direction.

CHAPTER FIVE—April 2036

“Hey, punk,” Bucky called to Steve, “what are you doing? You're killing me!”

Rogers came running across their makeshift field, casually. “Jerk, wha’d’a want from me? I’m out of practice. Didn’t I tell you I retired?”

“That was fifteen years ago. Sure your memory’s not going?” Bucky recovered the football from the treeline behind him.

“Really, twinkle toes?” Sam Wilson called over, panting. “Only three hours worth of running circles around me, and you two are tired? I win then. Think Sharon’s got some lemonade?” Falcon jogged weakly to the house.

“He’s right,” Steve said, catching up to Bucky. “He’s getting too old for this. We should go easier on him.”

They smiled at each other. “Never,” Bucky replied, “but a drink sounds pretty good.”

Steve and Sharon had furnished the house simply, in a sort of French farmhouse style, wooden features wherever possible, mismatching dishes and utensils gathered over the years. Wilson was already refilling his marbled-blue glass when the others sat down.

“One damn grey hair,” he mumbled, pointing back and forth between Steve and Bucky, “is that too much to ask for? I can hardly _watch_ you two without feeling my knee ache.”

“Did you need an aspirin,” Sharon offered with a laugh, setting down more glasses. She turned to Steve. “I’ve got a few more errands before dinner. Need anything?”

“No, doll,” Rogers replied, planting a kiss of her cheek. Bucky noticed a few more freckles on her face than the last time he visited. Everyday almost everyone he knew changed just a little, but not Bucky, not Steve. Sharon grew older every year; Steve, ever the loyal gentleman, grew more in love with her every year. The only changing thing about Bucky was his opinion on whether he wanted the same thing or whether it was a waste of time and effort.

“Have fun, boys. Don’t kill Sam,” Sharon called from the door, accompanied by the jingle of keys and a shutting door.

“Don’t you have enough salt for the three of us?” Bucky scratched at his temple hairline strategically.

“Hardy-har-har, Bucko,” Sam mumbled.

“Don’t do that.”

“So,” Steve interrupted, “what’s the news at headquarters?”

Sam cocked an eyebrow. “Aren’t you CC’d on all that stuff?”

Bucky eyed Steve who shrugged uncomfortably. The former leader of the Avengers sipped lemonade at a simple wooden table, surrounded by knick-knacks, wearing plain clothes, and sweating for a fun workout with friends. “You mss it,” Bucky accused.

“Not,” Steve started, fumbling a bit, “all the time.”

“That civilian life not sittin’ so well these days,” Sam chided.

“Sometimes I just miss the…amount going on.”

Bucky chuckled. “Great. You can have it back now.”

“No, Buck, that’s not what I mean.” The bulky man crossed his arms in front of him. “It’s fine. I…ya know what would help? It’d be nice to see you two settled a bit.”

Sam grunted. “I’m a wild stallion. Why you wanna put me in the stables?”

“No chance that lovely Stacy—“

“Nope.”

“I thought you two went to dinner—“

“Nope.”

“Danielle?” Bucky asked.

“Don’t you get started with me.” Sam glared at Bucky. “I’m not the oddly celibate fool.”

“You are not celibate, very true.”

“Buck,” Steve started.

“Steve?” He turned back to Sam. “I wasn’t judging, only recounting the slew of names we’ve heard over the years.”

“It’s not a slew,” Sam burst. “It’s a quarter of a lifetime for me!”

“And you can do whatever you want with it,” Bucky defended, “I never said any different.” He put his hands up in defeat. “Not my business.” He pointed at Steve. “He asked!”

“Anyone heard how the Bartons are doing?” Steve took another sip of lemonade.

“Chaos,” Sam quipped. Then he adjusted, “no, Clint is good, but three kids is rough.”

Steve made a face over his glass. “Shouldn’t we just call it four now?” There was a dark silence. Sam shifted his eyes to the window. “Thought you two were close for a bit?” Steve couldn’t get Sam to meet his eye.

“Little Sam…” Wilson started, pressing his thumb to the corner of his lips. “She’s definitely a Stark.”

“What does that mean?” Bucky asked.

Wilson opened his hand in mid-air. “I don’t know. She was playful, not athletic, but fun. Then she got to asking me more and more questions, about Tony and Pepper and Avengers. I didn’t have answers, and then if I did, I didn’t know if I was supposed to answer them. What would Tony think? I don’t know how Clint does it. How do you raise another guy’s kid in a way her real dad would want? She supposed to believe in Santa and the Easter Bunny or straight to cold, hard truths? I can’t make that choice.”

“From what I’ve gathered, Tony doesn’t make that choice either,” Bucky said quietly.

“Who told you that?” Steve looked concerned.

“Nat,” Bucky replied.

“Anything going on there,” Steve asked.

“She and Bruce try to keep tabs on the girl. I don’t know a lot about it.”

“That’s not what I was asking,” Steve added.

“But that’s the answer you’re gonna get.”

“Wait,” Sam exclaimed, “you and Natasha?”

“No,” Bucky said shortly.

“I always thought you two might,” Sam continued, relaxing into his chair with a smug look. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Nothing happened…within the last decade. She made her choice; she’s with Banner.”

“Sure you didn’t make the choice for her,” Steve punctuated, unable to help himself.

“Mutual decisions were made,” Bucky asserted. “Look, I don’t know why we got on this subject, but I veto it now.”

Steve sighed. “I just think,” he finished, looking out the window at the browning field in the overcast light, “that we’ve all been through enough to deserve a little happiness.”

* **

“She’s not a Russian spy or an assassin, so stop trying to teach her things that make her a target!” Tony was pissed. Cornered in a lab with a time-sensitive project, he couldn’t escape Natasha’s demands for approval of activities to offer his daughter.

“I don’t think playing cards ever killed anyone, Stark,” Nat flatly stated.

“Yeah, but she learns cards, goes to casinos, attracts some guy with an ironic tattoo and a blue shirt with white collar and cuffs,” he shivered, “and it’s all over. Obie used to wear those awful things. Should have known then…”

“Well,” Natasha started, not sure how to take that, “there’s a lot going on _there_ , but Samantha still needs some variety of stuff to learn. Social skills wouldn’t hurt.”

“Let her be anti-social. It’s safer. Keeps her out of the news and _not a target_.” Tony’s chest swelled with justification and righteousness, his logic infallible.

“You know you’re the one who makes her a target,” she screamed, much angrier than intended. Nat took a breath and watched Tony’s belligerent look relax.

His eyes remained locked with hers. “She’s not a target if she’s not _here_ and isn’t known by my name. Who’s gonna know?”

“Stark,” Nat tried to begin again.

“You want her to socialize? Fine. She can go to boarding school. Socialize with kids her own age away from Barton. Is that it? He just wants a break?”

“That’s not what Pepper would want—“

Tony slammed down the wrench he held. The ringing of the table lingered. “Don’t you dare.”

She composed herself again. “Stark, I just meant your daughter shouldn’t be farther from you now, and she shouldn’t be left with no defense. The wolves could be circling, and we don’t see it.”

“And we fed them,” Tony exploded. He stalked towards Natasha. “This ragtag team of misfits put a giant target on our foreheads and screamed for attention _across the universe!_ The wolves won’t give a rat’s ass about her if we keep their attention or keep them running.”

He looked at her, face-to-face, his eyes so dark they looked black. His build would have to wait till he calmed down. He tossed the wrench across the room, smoothly, if loudly, sinking it into the classic foldout, hotrod red toolbox open in the corner.

“Kid goes to boarding school. Problem solved. Smoothie?”

* * *

Thirteen weeks. The mystery of the hard drive kept Samantha going for thirteen weeks. It had made a terrible school with terrible, small-minded children bearable, but only just. Those weeks were spent looking for a compatible power supply, then connecting cables, then a computer old enough to read the programming. She had to convince Laura to let her spend hours locked in her room or hours longer spent at school in the library. She convinced Clint to help her carry the bulky, ancient technology upstairs to her room. She pushed through.

When the day finally came to access the data, Sam was so pleased to find something worthwhile: Howard Stark’s AI. It’s name was Mistress, and even at over 60 years old, Mistress was able to help Sam transfer her program to a modern terminal compatible with her tablet. Missy, as Sam called her, was a fellow fast-learning friend, but that made Sam all the more afraid to tell anyone about it. No one much noticed the difference between loner-Sam and recluse-Sam, except with Missy, Sam was happier, more energetic. Laura noticed Sam made jokes, she started using cultural references instead of scientific, and she actively asked how the family’s day was at the dinner table. It was such an improvement, why would anyone upset the balance? They all let her develop into a nerd because that was better than the sad, hermit alternative.

Missy helped connect Sam’s homework with real-world purpose, searching for applications of equations, and how and why these idea were discovered. It was so much more comprehensive then following along in a text. Missy could take Sam down a rabbit hole of any subject, and they’d both come out the other end smarter. Particularly interesting to Sam was Missy’s consistent evaluation of Tony Stark’s body language from video footage. Particularly interesting to Missy was Sam’s recounting of Tony himself and all Sam had ever heard about Missy’s maker, Howard, after he shut her down.

One evening, nearly two years after booting up her best friend, Sam snuck down for a snack before continuing a fascinating and blunt conversation with Missy about the experience of hormonal fluctuations during puberty, when she stopped short of the landing, hearing voices.

“If we thought this school was tough for her, she’ll be eaten alive at that preening castle of teenage monsters,” Clint angrily whispered.

“Honey, it’s his call. We don’t have the right to choose for her instead.” Laura ended her thought unsure, as if hoping for it to be an open question.

“She…she’s been here so long, I can’t stand to hear about the names, the graffiti, the…” Clint’s voice trailed off. Sam could hear his exact movement to wipe his hand across his face and land his chin in his palm. It was his signature dad-move. “Lila wasn’t teased like this, was she?”

Sam could not distinguish the silent gesture Laura answered with, but Clint’s response made it clear.

“Any of them? Why is this so different then? I can’t believe I’m actually annoyed that my kids weren’t tormented at school…What do we do? You don’t think that hoity toity academy is a good fit, do you?”

“Did anyone ask Tony if Sam could just come home—go home? It’s been ten years, honey. We can’t keep this up.”

“Sometimes he seems to have a plan and others…I don’t think he ever considered making decisions for a child. Deciding for someone’s life, shaping their future. He’s terrified. Hell, I’m terrified and my kids are grown up, basically. Tony doesn’t like people to see him, ya know, have a soul anymore—“

“Honey, I don’t have an answer,” Laura blurted with exasperation. She calmed quickly. “You should get some sleep. We hardly get to see you, and they’ll want to shoot in the morning and bike after. You’ll be dead to me by dinner if you don’t go up now. I’ll be up after I…”

Sam heard Clint scoot out his chair and rushed back upstairs, her appetite gone.


	6. Memorial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The old Containment site is turned into a beautiful garden in memory of those killed in 2025.

CHAPTER SIX—May 2036

Tony adjusted his suit as he stepped out of the limousine. He made no acknowledgement of the press and flashing lights; this was not that kind of occasion. He shook hands with the mayor, the governor, and the landscape architect. Natasha, Bruce, Wanda, and Bucky followed, all filing behind a nervous intern leading them to the platform set up on the grounds for the ceremony. Maria Hill was already behind the podium onstage. She began as everyone took their places.

“Good afternoon. Thank you all for coming today as we officially open the Memorial Garden on this, the eleventh anniversary of the tragic explosion on this very spot. We are here to honor the lives of the sixty-eight men and women who perished, and to celebrate the beauty of the natural world that continues on for those left behind after this devastating accident—,” Maria read from her papers, head lowered.

Tony met Happy Hogan’s eye from the security chief’s position off-stage. Happy gave the slightest nod, gently tapping at his royal blue pocket square: Pepper’s color. Tony faced front again, sniffed, and pushed up his sunglasses. He shifted his stance and returned both hands to his pockets, touching his thumb to the ring he still wore on his finger. The sky was not quite the right blue, and it was too hot, Tony noted.

“—And now Tony Stark will say a few words,” Maria said, gliding out of his way to approach the podium.

Tony looked at the microphone like it was a cobra. He had only planned a sentence or two, neither of which he could recall now, but in true fashion he stepped forward and cleared his throat. “First, I’d like to thank all of the gardeners and landscapers, the contractors and builders who put together this…beautiful space. I’d particularly like to mention the architect, Daniel Toshirushi, whose uncle also died in the facility’s explosion—“ He forgot he wasn’t supposed to explicitly associate the accident with the Avengers. “—he worked tirelessly to never ask me a single question about the layout or details.” There was a small, rolling chuckle within the crowd. That should mull over his misstep.

The wind blew in the smell of flowers, making Tony pause in recognition of one in particular. What little idea he had of what he should say was blown away. “Except I did tell him to put daisies in because that’s what Pepper told me to do. Those are her favorite…” He heard his mistake. “Were her favorite,” he corrected. “It’s what she would have wanted.” He could feel Wanda’s stare boring holes in the back of his head. “Pepper also used to tell me not to wing my speeches.” Another smaller laugh. Tony looked down at his hands on the podium, his wedding band perfectly polished, golden like his late wife’s hair. “I should have listened.”

There was a stalled moment where Tony looked back out at the audience. His eyes found Steve Rogers and Sharon easily enough in the front. Steve gave the same small nod as Happy, and Sharon gave a press-lipped smile of encouragement. They were holding hands.

Tony took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “When we lose someone, as we all have and we all will, we are left with pieces of their lives, things they loved. Those little reminders are often painful as the…smell of daisies is to me, but they are beautiful. So thank you to everyone for this wonderful…tribute.” Tony pinched his nose, sniffing, and adjusting his sunglasses again. “We are deeply moved by the good work of all those involved with this project.”

He could not move away from the microphone fast enough, descending from the platform stage as Maria Hill scrambled to move the proceedings on to the unveiling of the memorial plaques. She began reading the names of the deceased. For those with military service records, Captain Barnes was charged with firing a blank. Maria paused between those last twelve names. Bucky propped the muzzle of his weapon against the rim of the vibranium shield, allowing a short, clear ring to accompany each shot.

Tony settled for standing beside Happy.

“Short and sweet, sir,” his old friend said softly.

It made Tony more agitated than he expected. Normally, any praise of such a botched address was a standard jab from Happy. Today lacked Tony’s comfortable sarcasm, and also lacked someone else. “Where is she?”

“Sir?”

“Sam. Where’s the kid?”

“I thought Clint talked to you.” Happy grew a noticeable shade paler. “Think it was supposed to be good news for…another time, but Sam’s gonna study at Harvard. Apparently,” he trailed hesitantly, “boarding school was not her first choice.”

Tony barely heard him. He looked around, scanning for Wanda. He dreaded the conversation coming. “Are we done here? Cause I’m gonna—” He gestured to leave.

Happy seemed a little shocked. “There’s a walk-through photo op—“

“Photoshop me in,” Tony said. “Have Yates pull the car around.” He was lucky the crowd was too busy applauding the tribute to catch him slipping away. His chest was getting tighter, his breathing hard to control.

He slid into the car, a false sense of safety dying when Wanda slid in right behind him.

“Don’t start,” he demanded, loosening his tie.

“ _What was that?_ ” Wanda shrieked, spreading her arms between seats to corner Tony inside the vast space of the limo. ”Tony?!”

“Seriously, not today.” He tried to look out the window.

“Tony, tell me you know the difference,” Wanda pleaded. “When did you discuss flowers with Pepper?”

“Over coffee one morning,” he replied, attempting to sound as casual as possible.

“What morning? What year?”

“I don’t know. The one where we drank coffee!”

“How old was Sam? Was it before she was born or after?”

“I don’t remember, okay? Please back off.” Tony put up a hand to encourage her to sit down on their ride home.

Wanda sat back and crossed her arms. For nearly a decade, she had put Tony under her power’s influence to imagine his best times with Pepper. She thought it would help him heal. It was cathartic at first: she heard sobs from his room as the illusions wore off, but he always emerged focused and balanced. It kept him working instead of ruminating for weeks on end. There had been months when the team was so entrenched in a fight and its aftermath that he wouldn’t ask, but recently it had gotten especially bad. The tense he used to speak about her, rare as that was, was _present_ tense. Wanda thought that he might not be remembering anymore but making up new experiences with his dead wife. The line had been crossed for her.

“That’s it, Tony,” Wanda declared. “I won’t do this anymore.”

Tony felt the bottom of his stomach fall out. “You can’t do that.”

“You don’t remember what’s real anymore. She’s not here. Pepper is dead and the dreams I give you can’t change that. This has gone on long enough.”

“I know what’s real,” Tony insisted, “and I know she’s gone.”

Wanda changed her tone to soothe him. “I don’t believe this is helping anymore, and I’m not sure the dreams ever did.”

Tony snorted. “Because sleeping at night isn’t helpful? Feeling like there is still someone in this world _to save_ , that’s definitely not a motivator. Ya know, Vision would want to be remembered.”

“You are not keeping me on your side,” Wanda pushed through gritted teeth.

Tony sat back and stared out the window, wishing he had just worn his nano suit. He wanted nothing more than to fly away from this mess. “I’ll move on when you move on.”

He thought through conversations with Pepper. Truthfully he could not remember which had become a recounting of a real event or what was his mind’s creation in to fill the time until Scarlett Witch’s spell. Pepper had once told Tony that he couldn’t tie his shoes without him. Now, Tony knew she was absolutely right.

“Friday, call Barton.” The impulse passed as quickly as it came. _What would I even say?_ “End call.”

All those years ago, when the words first fell out of his mouth, it was Pepper: _I’m trying to protect the one thing I can’t live without_. She was clear blue eyes, strawberry blond hair, and Tony Stark’s one thing. When Pepper was pregnant with Samantha, he would stare at her face, watching her reaction to kicks and pains and food. When Pepper gave birth, he watched her face as she met her baby for the first time. He watched Pepper play with Sam, he watched Pepper read to Sam, and he watched Pepper become elated at seeing another little plus sign on a pee stick. It was always Pepper. He never said it aloud, but it was always _him and Pepper_. The rest wasn’t his one thing.

Him surviving without her was never planned; he still wasn’t sure it was possible. Tony was a barely-living, vague approximation of a human being on a good day, a cocktail of sarcasm and snacks running low like the end of a party.Tony surviving with Pepper’s child was essentially the worst case scenario, a horrible joke. A boy he could treat like himself, like Howard had treated him, making adjustments as necessary for hygiene and humor development. A girl was all Pepper’s area of expertise. He had no plan for that.

Young Tony Stark had been sent to boarding school by Sam’s age, but before that, life with his father had been about staying out of the way and life with his mother about distracting her from her husband’s philandering and drinking. That wasn’t the life Tony wanted for his kids—kid, just the one, he always had to remind himself. With the Bartons Sam had far more than Tony could provide, more than he had been provided, and in a sick way, that made Tony jealous.

But he couldn’t really complain, he reasoned, because Harvard wasn’t shabby at all. Tony watched the world go by, content in the notion that he had made the right call for Sam. She was much better off if he stayed away.


	7. Lecture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now at Harvard with Cooper, Samantha learns whatever she wants. A friend of Cooper's tries to get her out of her shell.

CHAPTER SEVEN—April 2038

“Missy, can you unmute the TV?” Pictures of Tony Stark and other Avengers tracked across the screen.

_“—at the UN are still conducting inquiries into the stolen shipment of research materials headed to the Avengers facility in New York. Maria Hill, spokeswoman for the organization, said today that the investigation had several promising leads, none of which will be discussed with the public so far. While insisting no materials being transported were immediately dangerous, such as chemical weapons or volatile compounds, Avengers Corps also added that recovery of the contents is top priority. Critics are concerned that after twenty-three days, the trail might be growing cold, and an offensive approach to the public’s protection is in order. To respond to these and other criticism, Tony Stark will be with us here in the studio at the top of the hour. We now go to our panel to talk about the 2038 midterm elections and their picks for winning candidates. Joining us today is former—“_

“Mute.” Sam turned away from the TV. “Archive footage. Suit mach one. Play from beginning.”

“Are you sure that’s a good use of time, Ms. Stark?”

“Missy,” Sam insisted playfully.

“Accessing footage for the third time this month.”

“Get a life, Missy.”

“After you, Ms. Stark,” but the video window popped up in her top right monitor all the same.

— _Ok, let’s do this right. Start mark half a meter back to center_ —

Every time she watched, Sam studied his face. He was methodical, relentless, and willing to suffer for his innovations. She watched the way he walked, watched his movement in the suit become second nature, watched his stance, his concentration.

— _Day 11: test 37, configuration 2.0_ —

“…starting off at one percent thrust capacity,” Sam mumbled before the audio did. Although comforting, each viewing made her feel more intimidated by Anthony Stark. That man had confidence and an endless supply of energy. His mind was a national treasure. The ground he walked on was sacred.

Watching his news interviews made it worse. Tony had dark features but such an easy air. He was social, talkative, always joking, and even when serious, irreverent. Sam had none of those things. It would take her decades to learn all of the little references that he slipped into conversations. She needed to do something interesting, worthwhile, to make him want to talk to her. What she was currently doing probably wouldn’t cut it; all she ever did at school was recreate someone else’s project.

Boarding school hadn’t happened, but Harvard had. Well, she lived at Harvard and used the Stark Medical Building, established 2030, as her own personal chemistry set. It had been an easy sell, since Cooper had invited her to “test the waters” there two and half years before, after he came home for a particularly rough summer visit. As long as they could name-drop, any Stark was welcome at Harvard.Standard curriculums, however, were not a Stark ‘thing.’

Sam rarely used her full name except to get past security on campus at odd hours, and even then preferred to sneak around without questions. Luckily, the press never cared about the girl who did nothing and was never mentioned for anything beyond _existing_ , so Sam was also safe from followers and paparazzi. Papa Stark kept them flush with stories on his own. Instead, Sam lived in the top floor of the three-story townhouse rented within walking distance of campus, an office, bedroom, and bathroom all to herself. Cooper lived downstairs with his fiancé, Ann Margaret Haller, known as Annie, getting a Masters in English, who hoped to teach someday. They rarely bothered Sam.

Except that day when Annie called up. “Sam, will you join us for a minute? We have something to discuss.”

“Ok, coming,” Sam yelled downstairs. “Missy, go dark.”

As Sam hustled down the wooden stairs, she saw three sets of feet. Company.

“Sam, I don’t think you’ve officially met,” Annie bubbled, “this is Lucas.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen him around. Nice to meet you,” Sam replied, extending a hand.

“You’re the youngest, Coop’s younger sister, right?” Lucas took her hand quickly and released.

 _Time to play the ‘people’ game_ , Sam thought while saying, “Yes, much younger, as he loves to remind me.”

Cooper chuckled.

“Well, to be fair,” Lucas added, “Coop is much older than the average med student here.”

Annie seemed too excited to let anyone continue. “Cooper,” she burst, “would you and Lucas go get some coffee for us all?” Her beaming smile did not match her request, leaving Sam suspicious. “We’ll be in the living room.”

Sam happily walked over to an armchair to watch the news.

— _Still no word on the stolen container from an Avengers shipment three weeks ago. Avengers representative Maria Hill did not offer any further description of the items in the missing container—_

Different channel; same news.

“So, Sam, I have a big question for you,” Annie chirped, lowering the volume.

Her suspicion grew. “Alright…”

“Will you,” she looked at Sam with glassy eyes, “be one of my bridesmaids?” Annie squealed even before the answer.

Sam smiled instinctively, hollowly. “Are you sure?”

“What? Do you not want to? It’ll be so fun,” Annie jumped in. “You’re practically family!”

Sam couldn’t take time to think of the incorrect or depressing assumptions of those statements, so instead, she jumped too. “Of course, so fun!”

Annie bought it. “And Lila will be the Matron of Honor, so you’ll have other friends there. The colors will be very flattering and the cut of—“

Sam stopped listening, sensing the bride-to-be diving off the deep end of insignificant detail. Her eyes flicked back to the news which now showed a montage of Avengers members overseeing deliveries, signing paperwork, testing security features.

“Sam?” Annie interrupted. “Do you think they’ll come if we invite them? I mean, some of them at least?”

“Them?” Sam pointed at the TV. “Sure, barring a global invasion—“

“He said yes,” Cooper burst in, carrying the coffee. “I have a best man!”

Annie clapped, giddy again. “Wonderful!”

Lucas stayed hovering behind the couch, distracted by the news as well. “This is such a mess. Have you been following this? What if they lost chemical weapons or nukes or something? We deserve to know.”

Annie sat silently. Cooper handed out coffee, shaking his head, whispering, “don’t start, dude.”

“And _that_ guy,” Lucas waved his hand at Tony Stark walking up to the UN in purple-tinted sunglasses, “he’s the worst. Stark wants us to just follow blindly like sheep. It’s been twenty-five years of ‘do as I say, not as I do’ because he’s our _savior,_ obviously. What a tool.”

Annie and Cooper had a sixth sense for whom to reveal Sam’s name, and it didn’t disappoint today. Sam couldn’t be offended because Lucas wasn’t wrong, but she could roll her eyes and focus on her coffee. The bloom of the cream in the dark pool was more interesting than 95% of what people had to say. She made vague indications that she was listening, and when Annie seemed to boil over with excitement, Sam put he free hand to her heart and smiled wider. It was her personal challenge to fake this well enough to keep it as short as possible. Just when Sam could feel the strained smile crack like dried plaster, Lucas caught an opportunity.

“Coop, you’re coming to the lectures Monday, right?”

Annie deflated, robbed of her indulgent girl-talk, but Cooper put his hand on his fiancé’s. “We are actually going to visit Annie’s parent in Pennsylvania for a few days, so I can’t make it. Great lineup this term though.”

“Well then you should come, Sam,” Lucas shifted to the edge of the couch, apparently anxious to keep the subject off weddings.

“Oh, I’m not technically part of the Med schoo—

“They are meant to be cross-disciplinary. I’m sure there will be something of interest to you.” The black-haired boy gave a sparkling smile that felt almost aggressive.

“Great,” Sam forced out, ”these two always tell me to get out more. Why not?”

***

Sam should have stayed home. She had to endure ridicule for having brought a large purse (to get supplies from the med lab later) only to be asked to store Lucas’s notebook inside said purse. He asked for it back to make notes every so often and commented repeatedly about the bag’s size. They saw four lectures ranging from transitioning methods of payment and medical business coverage to the separate health concerns of space travel and varying research needed to match alien technologies for stasis. There was only standing room left inside their last hall due to a ‘surprise guest.’

Sam stood elbow to elbow with strangers at an awkwardly sharp angle to view the stage. She was glad to have her bag as a buffer on one side at least. Lucas stood behind her with his arms crossed and an elbow grazing Sam’s back. Nothing started until almost 10:30pm. The lights were lowered for the introduction, and then the night took a terrible turn.

The audience lost their minds in excitement as Mr. Tony Stark himself came out to be interviewed. A ringing started in Sam’s ears. She only caught blips of his answers in between panicked moments of trying to plan an inconspicuous escape.

“What are the three main areas of development opportunities within Avengers Corp for students looking to get a foot in the door?” Dean Alice Lautier asked.

“Obviously we fight bad guys, but aside from armor and weaponry,” Tony adjusted his suit jacket, “we rely heavily on tech innovations, data storage and security, intelligence gathering, etc. and—“ Tony paused for dramatic effect, continuing with “spoiler alert to why I’m here today, medical innovations that help us and many others recover from attacks _as well as_ cure diseases and increase quality of life.”

Sam didn’t hear the third piece. She was lost in thinking of all the things her father had invented and all the inventions that had saved him. It was all a web of support, intricate and flexible, but it felt like she was the creature just small enough to fall right through the strands. This group of hundreds of strangers laughed with him; Tony had them engrossed, wrapped around his finger within minutes. He was a magnet for attention. Not even Lucas whispered a word against him while the lecture ran.

Sam refocused.

“And you have family here at the university now?” Dean Lautier coached.

_Shit._

_“_ Yes,” Tony started, the slightest tightening in his voice, “a long history actually. My father worked here for a short while back in the ’50s, and I distinctly remember…drinking here at least—“ the crowd laughed again “—well I was told multiple times that this is where I partied, so thank you, Harvard. As far as I remember… I was never here to take classes.”

“And now..” the dean pressed.

“But now, my daughter studies here as well,” Tony obliged.

The reaction in the room was mixed. Several people in the front openly looked around to scan the room. There were a few gasps, at least one audible ‘what,’ and one excruciating cat-call. Sam would have loved to rip that guy’s throat out. Tony peered over the top of his glasses.

“That’s a bold move, buddy,” he said, “or was that for me?” Tony preened easily, smoothing his vest and relaxed, spread-armed into the chair. Another laugh.

Sam felt herself start to sweat, uncomfortable that she had to stand with her arms tightly pressed against her. She would have to move past four people to get to a double door with a squeaky press-bar and noisy latch. She’d have to wait it out.

“You know the phrase: you are what you eat?” Tony went on a few questions later. “Well, you consume data and information and experience, so you are made up only of what you have already learned. What you’ve already been exposed to, that’s what you’re made of. As the world gets more and more complex, the universe opens up to us, we humans and inhumans need to experience more, and be exposed to more, to keep up. The rewards to research nowadays almost always outweigh the risks, but we still need people to ask the _right_ questions and to push the _right_ boundaries. You, students, are that next step to understanding for everyone—“

The surrounding people leaned and shifted forward, enamored by his words of encouragement, lifted by his praise, and emboldened by his faith in them. Sam counted at least seven more laughs, three more applause, and two long lines at the microphones on each aisle. She shifted from foot to foot, unused to physical activity or proximity. It all went on for an eternity, someone even asked her father out, but then Tony Stark abruptly stood up and declared he wouldn’t overstay his welcome. He existed the stage at Sam’s side. _Exit stage left_.

“We know this ran later than expected, but it’s certainly been worth it. As we mentioned,” the Dean finished, “we will be posting the Stark Internship application on our website. Thank you all for coming out for the Spring Semester Lecture Series. As always, topics and guests you’d like to present can also be submitted online, and I hope to see you all at Summer Series.”

The audience clapped, a few cheers, which muffled the sound of the stage door opening a few feet away. Sam went to look at her watch when the stranger beside her pushed in his attempt to get out of the walkway. She nearly tripped, falling backwards into Lucas. When Sam got back on her feet, there he was.

“Hey, kid,” Tony startled, shifting back on his heel before he passed her completely. He came up to her and without any prompt pulled her into a hug, adding “How are ya? Did you like the show?”

She couldn’t think to answer. He released her but kept his hands on her arms. “Do you know this guy? Who’s this?”

“Patrick, sir, huge fan” the guy who pushed her started to say. Sam managed to shake her head.

So Tony said, “not you, although, great” and turned himself and Sam towards Lucas.

Sam tried to shrug and stare her version of an apology _at_ Lucas. “Uh, this is Lucas. He’s gonna be in Cooper’s wedding.”

“Nice to meet you, Luke.”

“It’s Lucas,” her ‘date’ for the evening corrected with saucer-sized eyes.

“We love you,” someone screamed nearby.

“That’s great—“ Tony waived, releasing Sam’s shoulder “—am I going to that thing?”

“Can I get a picture?” Another student jumped between two alarmed onlookers to thrust a phone forward.

“Not today.” Tony flashed a peace sign. “Anyway, kid, I’ve gotta run. Talk soon.”

Immediately, three guys in all black and earpieces encircled him and led him out. Sam no longer recognized any of his security; she hadn’t seen Happy in person for years. Tony didn’t even make eye contact with her, at least not that she could see through the sunglasses, assuming that was the point. Of all the things Sam expected from interactions with her father, this was pretty low on the list. In front of hundreds of people who didn’t need to know who she was, Tony Stark had announced her presence _and_ made it abundantly clear that they were not close. Or at least that’s how it felt to Sam.

“What the hell!” Lucas leaned in towards her. “You’re…”

“Here’s your notebook. I’ve got to go.” Sam shoved the book into Lucas’s outstretched hands and weaved her way as fast as possible to outside and around the back of the building. Her watch said it was almost 12:30am. Tony Stark could certainly talk, but Sam needed to get moving to stock up on supplies before her window closed.


	8. Longing

CHAPTER EIGHT—April 2038

Her feet already hurt when Sam entered through the loading area of the Laboratory Sciences building as she’d done several times over the past few years. She’d spent forty minutes wandering the campus, fuming over how Tony had behaved and how she had just stood there like an idiot.

The security guards almost never checked the dock between 1am and 4am because Brian was super lazy, and ‘porky’ as his co-workers described, while Tim was too tired after getting in as many steps as possible earlier in his shift. Tim really enjoyed rushing straggler students out of the building, sending them into a panic over how to make up lab hours for their classes. That joy lasted Tim until approximately 1:15am, after which he became grumpy and had a dissatisfying snack, and then Brian would be responsible for an _excruciatingly_ slow check of the building 45 minutes later. What would take a normal person 15 minutes took Big Boy Brian nearly 25, which he would say was the start of the 45 minute down time. This normally meant an hour or more of time to get in and out of the building; now she had half that.

Of course, Sam had no need to sneak in; she could walk right in whenever she wanted.However, walking in and saying hello would leave a trace of _when_ she actually came and went, and she was in absolutely no mood to chit-chat with Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dumb. She also had full access, to the security programming of the whole university, thanks to Missy. Sam could access the building with a keycard unattached to any personnel, and the log was then wiped by her BFF. Missy would most certainly ask Sam why she arrived so much later than expected for pick up, and then Sam would then have to explain her ‘date’ with Lucas Sommerson. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

Inside the building, Sam needed to go to three different storage rooms and two labs to use or ‘borrow’ equipment. She hit the labs first so she didn’t haul around supplies, then the first storage closet, but on her way to the second, nothing seemed out of place until she rounded a corner about 100 feet from her closet. An exterior lab was awash with light, and once she thought to listen for them, Sam could hear voices.

“Up on the table, Todd. Can you get up there from the chair? We are ready to start the transfusion.”

 _Transfusion? Procedures are not done inside this building except on rare necropsy occasions_ , Sam thought, _and no one would perform a dissection at 1:49 in the morning._ She inched forward to read the plaque outside of the room.

Professor Simon Marshall.

She’d heard of him, read a few of his chemistry papers on synthetics and substitutions in pharmaceuticals, but Sam had never met him in person. Worst case scenario she could woo him with her knowledge of his research and keep him going with questions. But again, why a transfusion? _Odd._ She returned to the supply closet to fill her purse with disposables and sterile implements, but she hadn’t propped the door open to minimize noise from hinges. She wasn’t quiet enough. The door opened before her hand reached the knob.

Sam stared in complete confusion at the bizarre man across from her, a fierce widow’s peak of dark hair capping an olive complexion with sharp chiseled features and a beard reminiscent of Tony’s.

“Come with me,” he demanded and led Sam down the hall.

Marshall was a much bigger deal than she’d thought if his office and labs were any indication. Curiously, some of the prominently displayed tools and formulas displayed on screens were not chemical but genetic. The man he’d been speaking too still sat in his wheelchair at the base of a cleared table in the primary lab just adjacent to the office. He eyed her suspiciously as the bearded man led her further in to a secondary lab, a dispensary of sorts.

“Would you like to explain why you are stealing supplies?”

He had an accent she couldn’t place, along with equipment and sample specimens she didn’t recognize. A rack of large vials sat beside a trio of monitors. The labeling was in three languages, two of them typed neatly and a hand-written third. It was the tiny symbol in the labels’ corner that really set off the lightbulb in Sam’s mind: the embossed A of the Avengers.

“Are you Professor Marshall?” Sam asked, assessing her situation.

“His associate. A doctor he works with from time to time,” the man added.

“Well, Doctor, I can see you are busy with…” Sam couldn’t help but scan the closest monitor. “Since when did Marshall study marine biology?”

She didn’t mean to blurt it out, but all information was a challenge to be conquered. When you grow up with more computers than friends, you don’t have much of a filter. “Selachimorpha or Batoidea? It's definitely elasmobranchii…”

“And me? Do you know me?” The man in the wheelchair came to the door, throwing his head as if to toss his golden locks.

Sam had to study his face and imagine more life in it. His upper body was disproportionate now, so she tried to imagine a smile or catch his profile. The color of his hair actually helped. “You're the swimmer from a few years ago. Artiss, was it?”

“Arliss,” he replied flatly.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what we are doing here,” the doctor added from behind her.

“I don't ask questions that I don't want the answers to,” Sam said with confidence. “That's a waste of time…” She turned back to the sequences; something was off. “It's a splice!” But that wasn’t all, she couldn’t figure it out yet.

“Very good, Miss..?”

She heard a click beside her ear. One of those things that she never asked about was guns, and Sam regretted that in this moment. “Morgan” was all she could get out.

“Well, Miss Morgan, you may help Mr. Arliss become so much more than a swimmer before you die.” Even though the doctor lowered the gun prior to the crux of his threat, Sam’s terror grew exponentially.

“Is someone there?” a voice called from the hallway.

Her breath caught, just as afraid to be discovered as the armed doctor. Sam looked at her watch. Big Boy was over twenty minutes early with his rounds. _The oddities continue._

“The lights,” she whispered in frustration.

The doctor cocked an eyebrow. His eyes shifted as he contemplated options. Finally, he asked, “can you get rid of him?”

“Hello?” Brian called again.

Sam sighed, reluctantly adding “yes.” The doctor motioned for her to go out using the gun. Before crossing the threshold, Sam called for Brian then popped her head out.

“Jesus, Brian, you scared me!”

“Miss Stark? How’d you get in—“

“I was here this afternoon, but I passed out on my books in D7,” she waved down the hall, “they thought it was funny to leave me with the lights off.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” the security guard automatically scolded.

“I’ve got to finish this before—“ _Think, Sam, think. Lie better._ “My dad’s in town, and I want to show him this work at lunch tomorrow. I mean, today,” she checked her watch. “Oh man, I was out a while! Shouldn’t have pulled an all-nighter—”

“I heard another voice,” Brian fought to be smarter than his pay grade.

“You mean my computer interface? I guess it is kinda a male vocal range.” _Oh, I’m kinda good at this._

“You’re what?” Brian struggled, but after a few steps forward. Sam took a few steps back towards the door.

“You wanna see? I’ve been tweaking the AI to be more interactive, but I think a few more bug fixes and he’ll work pretty flawlessly.” Mission accomplished. Brian’s eyes glazed over as he lowered his shoulders in disinterest and fatigue.

“You didn’t go to your dad’s lecture?” Brian seemed more disappointed that she had missed it than Sam felt for having gone. “I’m sorry, but they’ve told us these buildings are off-limits tonight for the event. Can you pack it up in…” he checked his watch, too, “half an hour or so?”

She contemplated arguing for more time. It might not work and only served to draw attention.

So Sam saluted Brian, saying, “I’ll give her all she’s got, Captain.” _That’ll keep him happy._

Big Boy chuckled. “Ok, Sam, see ya downstairs.”

_Bingo._

Sam sauntered back to Marshall’s offices proud of her performance only to deflate when faced with the gun’s barrel once again.

“Hello, Samantha Stark,” the doctor whispered.

The way he accented her name triggered something in her memory. “Sharks,” she burst, “it’s shark DNA, isn’t it?”

This seemed to frustrate the doctor profusely. “Has anyone ever told you you are too smart for your own good?”

She thought in earnest, but that was more difficult with a weapon pointed at her. “Not sure anyone has been smart enough to notice…” She awkwardly made moves to raise her hands up. “Also I don’t get out much.”

It was Todd Arliss who snickered. “That I can believe. Doctor, let’s get on with it before you have to blow the mall-cops to high hell.” He locked his chair and expertly used all that arm strength to dismount onto the table.

“Come, Nurse Stark, you can prep the patient,” the doctor waived the gun again. “Hook up twolines, one in each arm.”

“I’m not trained to use needles,” Sam started to say. “I’m not that kind of student here.”

“Then put them in my legs. I won’t know how badly you’ve stuck me,” Todd seemed restless, anxious to be done.

Sam shook. It was hard to get her hands to do anything, much less help. “I…I don’t want to hurt you.” She looked up at Todd.

He rolled his pants legs up. “What is it you want to do with your life, young thing?”

 _Gosh, we’re asking the deep questions today…_ “Something no one else can.” It was such a vague statement, yet Sam meant it.

“As do I,” Todd responded, “as I soon will.”

Sam forgot herself for a moment and smiled. It was a warm feeling to make a friend, but Sam wasn’t sure this was the same. Perhaps just a flash of a kindred spirit, willing to break a few rules to better his life, to make a breakthrough. When she lifted her eyes from the needles, the doctor was staring at her. Sam’s blood went cold.

She shuffled around to find a fresh IV catheter. “I can do it again if it’s wrong.”

The doctor came to investigate. “You will not be needed anymore,” his deep voice replied.

Sam sucked air in so fast it made a small whistling sound. He put up a hand. “I, too, would like to see what your mind can do. Therefore, I will make you a deal.” He waited, keeping eye contact.

Her nervous swallow made a huge gulping noise, and Sam hesitantly replied “okay.”

“You agree to leave and never speak of myself and Mr. Arliss being here—“

“Done,” Sam jumped.

“—and keep those men from snooping around—“

Sam learned quickly. This time she only nodded.

“—and in exchange—“

She expected to leave with her life; that would be lucky…and ideal, but this day was full of oddities.

“—I will give you a gift. Something to give you the ability to do what no one else can.”

Sam was so dumbfounded, she became stone. After a serious pause, she added, “that would be pretty great.”

“She’s a smart one, Lem,” Todd smirked.

Sam looked around for some props for her next run in with the guards. “The professor could let me borrow some books, right?”

Ten minutes later, Sam stumbled out the building carrying a giant stack of texts, and a full, padded bag of samples and supplies.

“I did say half an hour, but I’m nowhere near done of course,” she called towards the quizzical look of Tim who was holding his carrot sticks, mouth agape.

Brian hustled forward. “Do you need help, Miss?”

“No, no. I could use the upper-body workout,” Sam met Tim’s eyes. He cheered her with a carrot. “I managed to lock the door without turning off the lights though. So I’ll text the professor not to be worried in the morning, ok?”

Everyone nodded.

“Night, guys,” Sam called over her shoulder, wobbling under the weight of the pile and the ache of her feet. Her adrenaline carried her the rest of the way home. She couldn’t wait to tell Missy that they had a new project, a real challenge to work on.


	9. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing action is not my forte, but I am trying. Promise.

CHAPTER NINE—June 2038

“This is some real Game of Thrones sh—” Tony was interrupted by a dirt zombie, as he dubbed them, lunging to eat his face. “Fresh out of brains. Please come back tomorrow for salisbury steak.”

“Only you could look at these things and think of food,” Falcon mumbled into his comms, flying high across the battlefield assessing the movements of hundreds, now thousands of temporarily animated bodies.

“Maximoff, you got any dragons?”

“Stark, you’re a child,” Wanda replied, ripping apart an entire group of demons with her mind and a graceful gesture.

Iron Man flew over to hover in front of her. “It’s so nice to be noticed.”

Bucky lifted his gun after reloading, back to back with Natasha. “Can I retire yet? I can’t take another twenty years of this.”

“I swear, Barnes, if you leave me with him…” Nat jumped headlong into a cluster of the evil dirt clods. The bodies broke apart easily enough, but the noise—their howling cries from hell—it was very disturbing. “Oh, god, it got in my mouth,” Nat spat.

“This feels like a video-game,” Peter Parker exclaimed joyously. “They’re not even scary.”

“Coming in hot,” Rhodes warned, peppering the flank with machine gun fire.

It all seemed so standard and even comfortable. This was their element, sass-fighting, and it made Tony almost happy to relinquish his considerable brain power entirely to wiping out these pitiful foes in the Siberian tundra.

“Anyone else feel that?” Wanda’s voice dropped. “Is that an earthquake?”

“Get ready,” Nat warned solemnly.

Now he could see it in flight, a visibly rolling, barren field beneath him, and a great hole collapsing in its center, glowing like lava.

“Falcon,” Tony yelled, launching to get Wanda out of the way.

“I’ve got him.” Sam Wilson swooped down to grab Spider-Man before the ground fell.

A massive blood-red body emerged from the crevice, thin and stretched to four times the size of a man. A starving form of bone and sinew that rose higher and higher as the earth fell away from the demons he commanded. They all had faces, souls of those who had left this world.

Surrounding Bucky and Nat were the ghostly victims of their assassinations. Men and women staring blankly at them while closing in. People they had already watched die, people daring them to do it again. Problematic politicians, clinging mistresses, rival businessmen, and one small figure Bucky didn’t recognize: a child, maybe a teenager. He heard Nat whisper beside him.

“It can’t be.”

Tony set Wanda down at a safe distance. He turned and began to say “what is that thing—” Then he saw his mother, gossamer and despairing. “Mom,” he breathed.

A flash of blue circled Wanda, slowing to stand in front of her and wink. “It’s not real, Stark. They’re not real.”

The great fiery figure let out a roar, flailing his gangly arms and spiked tail into the air. A hand clipped the EXO-7’s wing, crashing Sam and Peter into the ground among a crowd of souls. The mouths of every wraith unhinged to resonate the horrible shriek of their master.

Lightning struck.

“MEPHISTO,” Thor called, “you will leave this world and its people alone!”

Satan and his hoard replied with a cry, the specters all turned to attack the God of Thunder.

“I do not ask twice,” Thor threatened as the sparks began to dance around his body. The air turned electric, and no sooner had the ghosts sailed into the air to meet him, then the field exploded with light and death.


	10. Wedding

CHAPTER TEN—July 2038

"Whiskey, neat," Tony ordered, rapping his knuckles across the marble top. He kept his head relatively low and his tinted glasses on, covering yet another shiner. _One of these days,_ he thought, _I'm really going to ruin my beautiful face._

"Thanks for coming."

He turned to see Sam standing beside him in her long red bridesmaid's dress. The gold jewelry and shoes shone like a beacon, more Iron Man than his very own wedding.

"I was so excited I could hardly pick a suit," he replied, downing his whiskey and tapping the counter again. "Keep 'em coming." He slipped a one hundred dollar bill into the Murano glass jar.

"Champagne?"

Sam looked at him quizzically, adjusting her shawl across her shoulders and arms.

"You're old enough right?"

"In several countries," she said, "not this one."

"I won't tell," Tony mumbled, swiveling to grab one of the pre-poured flutes from down the bar and handed it over. His eyes flicked towards the tables. "You and that boy seem cozy."

His daughter blushed, rousing mixed feelings in Tony. Love and affection: he could remember the beginning but also the end, and now he resisted watching Sam go through the same.

She didn't take his bait. "How are Big Sam and Parker?"

Tony hardly let the pour end before ripping the glass up to his lips. He tapped again. "They'll be fine. We'll all be fine."

"I can come see Wilson—"

"Not necessary," Tony blurted, straightening. "He'll be out before you can visit." He continued to look out over the tables of guests, some trickling onto the dance floor in the center of the hall. It all took him back. He'd worn a grey suit, for Pepper, to match the free-flowing feel of her lace gown. No fabric was delicate enough to match her beauty that day. Everyday. Back then. He missed her neck and the way her hair would shift over it when she concentrated. Her head always lolled to the right when she worked. He used to rub her neck for her, call her lopsided, kiss her right cheek and push her head to the other side. He called it 'evening her out.' 

He'd expected to see her among the souls of Mephisto, just to catch a glimpse; the ghost of her, the fantasy, anything was better than nothing. Except nothing was all he got, no glimpse, no ghost, which felt much worse. Maria Stark had looked right at him, and as all moms do, she knew. His mother had come back just to see his misery and relive her disappointment. He couldn't think about it anymore; that was the goal: distraction. Tony only showed up to this event to avoid silence with the team at headquarters.

Seeing your departed loved ones in Satan's grasp will do that to you. Obviously, you don't exactly want to talk about it with others.

"The chicken was dry." Tony swirled his whiskey. "Should've had the steak."

Tony tried not to notice the disappointment on Sam's face. "Really," she whispered, "nothing?"

He watched Bucky and Natasha approach, relieved. "Oh thank god, you can dance with Terminator here." Tony patted Bucky once on the chest, asking "make it 40s-style and real awkward. You know, just be yourself."

Natasha gave them both a look.

"What? I'm gonna go terrorize her date." Tony swooped off before anyone objected.

Natasha delicately grabbed the untouched champagne from Sam's hand. "I'll take that."

"I don't suppose anyone would like to fill me in on what happened last week," Sam thought out loud.

"I'll tell you when you're older," Nat answered, taking a large sip, scrunching her face a little as the bubbles attacked her nostrils. "I'm gonna need something stronger."

Stoic, quiet Captain Barnes surprised Sam then. "Do you _want_ to dance?" It was a sheepish question from a very bulky man.

Sam looked up at his face for the first time. His hair fell forward, strategically covering several cuts and minor, yellowing bruises. She stumbled for words. "I...think he was joking," but even as she said it, the retreating Tony swiveled around and made a little hand gesture for dancing legs before continuing his b-line for Lucas. "Also," she added, "I genuinely can't dance."

"No one can these days," Bucky replied, flicking his eyes over the crowd of celebrators, "clearly."

"Here we go with the 'back in my day' speech..." Nat finished the glass.

"No," he buffed, "that's not the point. I'm about 70% sure Stark actually meant that as some sort of order." When the ladies continued to stare at him in confusion, he added, "it's a delicate points system I've developed."

Nat baulked. "Did you just...make a joke?"

"Leaving a 30% chance of being nicknamed to death for disobeying. Any bets on which references this time?"

Sam enjoyed the jabs at her father's expense. "Did it take you twenty years to figure the points out?"

"Four, actually," Bucky played along.

"So the sarcasm rubbed off on you in twenty years too..." Nat mumbled into a fresh drink.

"You didn't get that gene?" Bucky shaded his face, but one corner of his mouth twitched anyway.

"I'm 50% sure that I did. Nature versus nurture and all, but I'm 100% sure you know him better."

"Well," Nat said, pursing her lips, "I'm only 12% sure I know why we are talking in numbers."

"You speak Russian, German, Spanish, Italian, your French is okay, English, and probably more that I missed," Bucky explained to Nat, then opened a palm indicating the other, "Sam speaks math, English, and from what Clint has mentioned, computer, correct?"

It was the most Sam had ever heard him say, and it must have shown on her face. Her clasped hands went a little slack. Her shawl slipped. Nat cut in, "you...what?"

Bucky seemed possessed with a boyishness for a moment. "I don't just brood, ya know. I'm observant, and I listen."

The ladies couldn't come up with any words.

"But you do look lovely in red. 100% Tony there."

"I think he blew a fuse," Nat said out of the corner of her mouth.

"Guess they're getting lazy with the cradle though," Bucky added, pointing to Sam's exposed arm. "Bruce couldn't fix that for you?"

The playfulness in Sam's eyes died immediately. He'd gotten cocky, too friendly in his own attempts at distraction. She pulled the chiffon shawl back over as much of the arm as possible.

"I'll tell you when you're older. Excuse me." Sam left. Bucky noticed something odd about her walk.

"That was smooth," Nat snorted.

"I used to be good at talking to broads."

"What _century_ do you think it is?"

"Well," Bucky started, shrugging, "you could just tell me who the girl was. The one on the field."

"You know enough already. She was a mission, and I completed my mission. Now," Nat replaced another empty glass with a fresh, bubbling flute, "don't ever mention Sam's arm to Tony. I'm really warning you, James." She looked up at his cool blue eyes. "We don't need that shit-storm coming down on us."

"So, you're really gonna keep me in the dark? As if I haven't been here long enough," Bucky dropped off, letting his hair fall in his face again.

"I had no idea this was a pity party," Nat sipped, finally feeling the edge wear off. "Who did _you_ see?"

Bucky paused, watching the festivities unfold, people chatting and dancing, taking pictures, drinking and eating cake. Both their gazes landed on Sam, retreating, and Nat continued in a low voice.

"Every single one of us have used that girl. The world thinks she's one of us. We've done everything possible to make keep her out." The pair watched Sam awkwardly evade people through the tables, careful not to touch anyone, her head always low. " No one has ever asked her what she wants. Worse yet, nobody asked us either. We know how that feels, and we went ahead and did it to Tony's kid anyway."

Bucky could think of some joke one-liners to respond with: 'waxing philosophic on me, Romanoff,' 'are you a lightweight for champagne now,' but that gave Bucky the sinking notion that she was right. The bad bits had rubbed off on them all—the glib humor, the trivializing of life, the compartmentalizing of loss, the total failure to grieve, and the retardation of personal growth and change. Aside from changing allegiances, Natasha was much the same person she was thirty years ago. Apart from removing brain-washing, Bucky was much the same person he was one-hundred years ago. Why? Was their only comfort as a global, galactic fighting team to be constant?

Steve still complained to Bucky about how restless he was in retirement. Although, Steve Rogers complaining was more like a vague statement of interest and then hearty praise for the accomplishments of others, followed by silence, and then checking to make sure you were comfortable in his home. He couldn't change; he couldn't just hang up his helmet and walk away. Steve had to be a protector. Bucky had to be a soldier. Natasha had to be a weaver of webs. Banner had to research something and know why things happened. Tony had to know how to fix everything.

"Honestly," Natasha finally started again, "I never realized how much I missed Pepper. Even as my fake boss, she was a really good woman. She was a great mother." Nat trailed off in thought.

"I never had a real conversation with Mrs. Stark." Bucky searched Nat's thoughtful face, noticing just the slightest crinkle at her eyes. "She did order me around a few times, 'stand here' and 'wait here' and 'not now.' She wore the pants for sure."

"At least I spoke French better than her," Nat quipped.

"Barely," Bucky chided.

Natasha gave him a look to kill. "You are in a surprisingly good mood..."

"I like to see what it is we fight for," Bucky let his mouth run loose for a moment, "for people to not know about all the other...darkness we see."

Nat said nothing, but she did turn to the party with a slightly higher regard for the lightness of mood. Humans were allowed their frivolity. They were allowed to celebrate love and have family and live carefree sometimes. The Avengers hardly remembered that; they'd seen far too much. The two stood there like wallflowers, shadowy figures envying the light.

Tony, however, was basking in compliments and accolades from Lucas who had not stopped his run down of Stark's every innovation since the '00s. The boy admitted right away to disagreeing with the 'peacocking' he accused the billionaire of imposing on the masses, those who could not wield such a large political stick. Lucas was opinionated for a twenty-two year old, even critiquing Stark's choice of whisky. He also became suspiciously quiet once Sam came over.

"Boys," she said before sipping her coffee.

"Are you even old enough to drink _that?_ " Tony puffed up a little, eyes still shaded under glasses.

"You're about two years too late," Sam replied flatly.

Tony eyed her formal red gown, covered shoulders and arms, the most conservatively dressed of the bridesmaids but the youngest as well. He didn't see much of Pepper. Sam's shoulders slouched a bit; she didn't have the confidence of her mother. She drank from a porcelain mug without a delicate touch, just a clenched fist.

"Your—" Tony started, " _dude_ here was just telling me about his biostasis research at Harvard and its potential applications for us in space travel. Fascinating stuff, but—" Tony couldn't help but have fun with the kid. "—you may want to look into that power supply because its not exactly a flight-stable compound to be lighting on fire and shooting us out of orbit. Good start though."

"Arc-reactor tech could power up to what, forty pods, for an 18 month flight, allowing for minimal life support but full navigation and communications," Sam quickly rattled.

Tony peered over this glasses curiously, revealing a bruised corner of brow. "Twenty months," he corrected, "give or take weight and distance you travel by thrust."

"Among several factors," Sam conceded, eyes down.

"Sir, if I could test some of the simulated outputs of that technology, it would go a long way," Lucas jumped in.

"Down, Fido." Tony gripped the young man's shoulder without removing his eyes from Sam. "What's Harvard been teaching you?"

Sam went bug-eyed, clutching her coffee. She hadn't meant to say any of that out loud. Lucas always spoke about his research, and Sam listened, occasionally asking a leading question to have him self-correct a flaw in his logic. She never spoke of her own experiments because Lucas never asked, and she would never tell him.

"Harvard was supposed to _teach_ me? I'm not a stud—"

"S'more!" Lila came rushing forward. "Sorry to interrupt, but will you come over for a picture?" She grabbed Sam's arm without seeing her drink, and the hot liquid spilled all over Sam's hand. "Oh god, we'll clean that up first. We gotta redo your lipstick, too. Do you two mind?" Lila's motherly round face beamed at Stark and Lucas. 

Lucas nodded as Tony waved his whiskey hand vaguely. 

"Family photo at the wedding, ya know," Lila giggled and led Sam off to the ladies' room.

That was all it took for Tony to see it. Sam's 'older sister' taking her to put on makeup in the bathroom. Her 'brothers' and 'parents' waiting near the photographer. His daughter had another family, a whole family. She was a bridesmaid and a girlfriend and drank coffee and went to Harvard. Sam was almost eighteen, and Tony didn't know anything about her. What had he expected? The more she grew, the more he saw only the Stark heritage, a mini-Howard, a mini-him. Today was the most feminine Sam had ever looked, but she was still covered and plain.

"Sir," Lucas gently started, "I've also applied for the Stark Fellowship."

"Uh-huh," Tony mumbled into his glass, watching Sam and Lila return to pose for a family photo. Sam walked so awkwardly in heels, assuming that's what she wore under the floor-length gown as did the other bridesmaids; Pepper never missed a beat in heels. She ran a company in heels, ran the world in heels, ran circles around the world in heels.

And then Sam smiled for the photo, and there she was. The angle of her jaw, the corners of her mouth, the lift of her cheekbones, the tilt of her long neck; Pepper was right there...or a piece of her.

Tony suddenly cocked his head towards Lucas. "S'more?"

Lucas, caught off-guard by the subject change, took a moment to reply. "Samantha Morgan. Sss-Mor. Coop told me it was her childhood nickname. I just thought... you gave it to her..."

Tony clenched his teeth, looking down at his nearly empty glass. "I'll see what I can do about that application if you keep working on the power supply," he said, giving one last tap on the young man's arm and walking back to the bar. "But right now, I need a drink."

* * *

Sam roamed the infirmary hall of Avengers headquarters still in her flowing red gown. She carried her change of clothes in a bowling bag formerly used by Howard Stark--another Christmas pick from Storage Basement E--and her gold shoes. No one was here to see her limp along on sore feet; the after-party celebration had moved to a bar where Sam may have been welcome but incredibly bored, so she'd opted to come visit Sam Wilson. Unsurprisingly, Lucas saw some benefit to schmoozing the 'family.'

In one room she saw MJ sitting beside Peter Parker while their children loudly reenacted a play or perhaps a dance. Sam couldn't tell from her angle at the window. MJ gave a small wave to Sam, but Peter was too busy providing the sound effects for the performance. Sam smiled but moved on. It was beautiful to see a family together. They weren't a strange sort of sight, but Sam always felt such a distance from that joy. 

All her life was 'not-quite': Clint was not-quite dad, Laura not-quite mom, Coop, Lila, and Nate not-quite siblings, the Avengers not-quite uncles and aunts. The only absolutes were Samantha was related to Tony and Tony related to her in no way at all, or so she felt.

A few doors down was Falcon's room, a soft trail of music wafting from inside.

— _Over the shadows and the rain to a blossom covered lane—_

When she gently pushed open the door, Sam first saw Steve Rogers sleeping in a chair, arms crossed over his chest. Then she saw Big Sam.

His head was covered in electrodes, face covered in an oxygen mask, and hooked to a feeding tube. This was a lot worse than Tony had let on. Samantha was shocked enough to smash her bag against the door frame trying to enter, waking Steve and dropping her shoes.

— _Faint as a will o' the wisp, crazy as a loon, sad as a gypsy serenading the moon, Oh skylark—_

Ever the gentleman, Rogers quickly picked up each heel and handed them back. He said nothing but smiled and offered his chair for her to sit. Sam pointed to a chair on the opposite wall, and whispered, "will I wake him?"

"No," Steve replied in a low, calm voice, "he just enjoys Aretha. How was the party?"

Sam gave him a questioning look.

"I came back here after the ceremony. Not much for dances anymore."

"It was loud, and everyone drank a lot," Sam said, putting her stuff down to drag the chair close to the bed. Steve snorted. It seemed the seventeen-year-old and hundred-and-thirteen-year-old moved at about the same pace. 

Samantha tentatively went to Wilson's side. "Will he wake up?"

"That's—" Steve hesitated, evaluating what Lil'Sam was old enough to hear. "We don't really know. Head trauma hasn't made the same leaps as other medicine, so we...hope."

Lil'Sam took Big Sam's hand. His skin felt comfortingly warm. "He'll always have much bigger hands than me," she reminisced. "I used to think mine would catch up one day."

"I used to put newspaper in my shoes. My feet were too small," he pointed to her things on the floor, "and I see you now wear two different height of heels."

"I don't usually wear heels. Or dresses."

"Special occasions..." Steve drifted into thought, looking at Wilson's face, his profile warped under the plastic mask. "Natasha told me about—" he waved his hand over his left side "—years ago."

Samantha didn't move.

"I never told anybody else, but I am sorry that I didn't come see you."

She remained staring at Sam Wilson's slow breath fog his mask. He wasn't on a respirator, a good sign. Little Sam, her first nickname from a friend. She could remember being sad and angry when Big Sam's visits became less and less frequent. He called less and less. Sam Wilson had taught her humor and sarcasm more than anyone else. He'd explained that having emotions and acting on emotions were two very different things. Big Sam was her big brother, more so and for longer than any Barton, and he just lay there with warm hands and slow breath.

Sam herself breathed deliberately and slow. "It wasn't your fault, so..." Her eyes met Steve's.

Steve could remember being small, overlooked by other children, tormented even, saluting all those participating in the defense of his nation while he stayed at home. He remembered the desperate need to contribute, the mania of skirting rules over and over to prove he was worthy. He could see the same desperation in Samantha Stark. She was locked outside the building banging on the door, or at least, it was obvious to someone who'd been there before. It occurred to him that she would want to know not only what happened to her father but to their friend also.

"They saw the dead, Sam." Steve paused to watch the girl's face, but she did nothing. If she was curious, she didn't show it. If she was horrified, she didn't show it.

"That was the enemy last week: people who died long ago. For a few of us it was men and women killed by our own hands." It was clear he didn't want to mention the assassin past of Bucky or Natasha. He got quieter. "I think Tony may have seen your mother," Steve slowed seeing Sam slightly adjust to hear him better, "and I can't imagine how painful that would be." He leaned forward on his knees. The silence remained cold but open. Sam placed Wilson's hand on his stomach and returned to her chair, farther away, watching.

He continued, "Ghosts of those you've harmed, someone you...it's not something you forget. I wasn't there but I know what it feels like to regret what you did with the time you had..." He could feel himself slipping into his own thoughts and tried to boil down to his point. "We all see and do things in war, in battle, that we aren't proud of, that we wouldn't do...normally. I think Tony—I think because your father didn't have the training we had, he can't reconcile a...domestic life with his professional life."

"I don't think you guys do anything normally."

Steve, so used to everyone else's sidebar sarcasm, went on. "I lost my parents young, but I had my best friend. Bucky never knew his mom, but he was there when I buried mine—"

"Mine, too."

Steve stopped his rant at the mention of that awful, emotional, and chaotic day.

Eventually, Samantha composed herself enough to say, "I have no one like that, sir."

Her formality was endearing. Steve recognized the defensive distancing. "That's what worries me."

The beat that followed altered the chemistry of the room. Lil'Sam went rigid.

"Did it worry you last year?" She let the bitterness gnaw at the bottom of her stomach, a low, sickening rumble that grew into a white hot anger. "What about five years ago? Ten years ago? Why bring it up now?"

"I'm just trying to empathize—"

"You see a girl, don't you? You look at me and see a little girl. Perhaps a _four year old_ ," Sam tried to reign herself in but failed. She had made it through so much and never lost control like this. "Now, _try_ to really look at me. Sir," she spat, "I'm lop-sided with a billion dollar inheritance. I'm damaged goods with the mind of Tony Stark. I am...never going to fit here _._ I was outsourced. Like everything he's ever created except the suit..."

It was true, but the flame burned out as fast as it came on. What remained was simply blank, empty. "Everyone here, they see me as a follow up to him, and I just...want to do something else, something he can't."

Before he thought about his words, Steve quipped, "well, you fall off the bike, you get back on."

Sam went silent while Steve straightened himself up, regretful of his blunder.

"Samantha," he finally asked, "would you like anything from downstairs?"

"Coffee with cream," she replied after a moment, "please."

Steve noted that Sam, like Pepper, was respectful even when offended.

After Rogers had left, Samantha tucked herself at Big Sam's side. "Sometimes I wish..." but the words wouldn't come out. She held his hand again, concerned by how dry the nurses had allowed his skin to get. He wouldn't like that.

When Big Sam used to visit the Bartons and teach her about the different birds outside, he'd help her wash her hands up before everyone sat at the table. After drying off, Wilson would put a little lotion in his hands, and an even littler amount in hers, and say "no ashy hands here."

Sam smiled now as she'd smiled then.

A long moment passed, and suddenly she felt so uncomfortable in that dress she could scream. "I promise, I'll be back. Just putting on my sweats. Like you once said, 'it's a crime to look this good. Better save your eyes the glory.'"

As she smiled at the memory, Sam could hear the energetic voices of those returning from the night's festivities. She gave an unseen apologetic glance to Falcon; she'd have to go now. When she picked up Howard's bag, however, Rogers was back with coffee, standing in the doorway. He wore one of the saddest smiles she'd ever seen, and in a low voice said.

"You look beautiful, just like your mother."

She walked to the doorway with her things, her face reddening.

"I know he'd be glad you came."

Sam paused in the threshold. She'd found the purpose. "I'm going to fix this," Sam said, meeting his eyes, "Captain." She plucked one of the coffees from Steve's hand and left for the night. She had work to do in Massachusetts.

**[Skylark-sung by Aretha Franklin; released 1963 on album "Laughing on the Outside"]**


	11. Plunge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An incident pushes Samantha to try something drastic.

CHAPTER ELEVEN—July 2038

She already had an inkling of what to do; it would just take further genetic specialization. In her experimental testing of the properties of the Extremis virus, graciously gifted to her by a mysteriously supportive doctor, Sam had accidentally mutated the virus to only effect skin cells, the most ready available test material. Rather quickly in fact the virus had proliferated, and when repeatedly exposed to only one type of cell, became incapable of infecting a different type of cell.

Now Sam Wilson needed neural repair and tissue regeneration; she needed living neurons to infect and study.

Gathering active samples of brain tissue to breed a specialized virus was her immediate problem. It was her most overtly acquired supply and could not be managed without in-person aid. However, Sam couldn’t well detail her use of a controlled substance in a third floor, unlicensed laboratory, so she told the head of the hospital a half-truth: her use of organ donor brain tissue would be of great help in an Alzheimer’s treatment. It was totally possible that would be an application years from now, but she had no intention of working that long before saving Big Sam. Some samples were too degraded for the virus to infect at all. Neural structure also required a very specific stimuli to maintain functionality.

A host of other problems arose, leading Samantha to acquire even more equipment, none of which she cared to order or pick up covertly. There was no time. Mistress, ever efficient, still erased the digital records. At one point, Sam had so many samples going in her office that she moved the cold storage to her bedroom which was no longer used as a resting place anyway.

It was hours after the fact that Sam realized Cooper and Annie had yelled up good-bye to leave on their honeymoon. They’d be gone for three weeks cruising, site-seeing, backpacking, and finally visiting family. All Sam had replied with was “okay.” The work felt painstakingly slow until Sam looked at the calendar; she’d only been focused on neural regeneration for a month, but she felt she was close.

One day— _what was it_ , she thought, _Tuesday? Oh damn, it’s Friday_ — after finally having to go downstairs for more ground coffee, she realized she hadn’t eaten in…maybe days… and started making herself some pasta, the very first thing she found in the pantry. She looked to her phone for the stream of live results Missy sent from each Extremis unit currently active. There were some promising specimens, along with at least two that required incineration. _After food_. Sam put down her phone and turned on the small kitchen monitor to the news.

King T’Challa stood on a podium welcoming King Namor of Atlantis to the United Nations. He offered kind words of people living together to protect each other, as he had opened his own technologically advanced nation to do decades ago. T’Challa was all honor and respect; Namor all suspicion and stoicism, the physical embodiment of the marble statue of David but with curiously slippery-looking clothes. The speech touted the storied history to their two ancient civilizations, Wakanda and Atlantis, and pledged support for peace between all nations of the planet, whetheron land or in the sea.

Sam absently stirred the water, mesmerized and exhausted, drained of her highest functions. She kept watching until she was startled by the simultaneous sizzle of the over-boiling pot and doorbell. She dumped in the package of dry penne and ran to get the door.

“Oh, hey,” she greeted Lucas, “come on in. I was just cooking.”

Her boyfriend entered, hands deep in his pockets, snorting “you don’t cook, Sam.”

“Eh, pasta with sauce is food,” she shrugged.

“We need to talk.”

“What happened? You look…” Sam never knew what descriptors were appropriate to use in conversation: ‘upset’ usually incurred some backlash, ’tired’ was just rude, ‘unhappy’ mostly referred to one’s thinking face. Luckily, she didn’t have to finish the thought.

“I got the fellowship, Sam.”

She couldn’t remember that context. “What fellowship?”

“I didn’t tell you because I had said some things in front of you about your Dad that—”

“No one calls him that,” she blurted. “He doesn’t like it.” Then she stitched together some of his meaning. “You applied for the _Stark_ Fellowship? Since when…you don’t like…why would you want his name anywhere near your work?”

“Look, I said some negative things about…Mr. Stark, and I thought I’d seem like a hypocrite if I took his money. But you can’t deny it’s my best opportunity to develop the technology—”

“So still applying for his money and resources is not hypocritical after a certain time passes or just if you don’t mention it. Or is it not hypocritical while _I_ don’t know about it?”

“Sam, you’re not listening.”

“I am. That’s all you’ve said so far.” Her logic felt infallible, at least to her.

“Right, well, I’ve been given a stipend and would move to DC. That’s the main facility hosting my department of research. And I’ve been given a contract that pays for me and _others_ to be relocated…”

“Oh?” Sam’s brain went in several different directions all at once.

“And I’ve decided to take my mother.”

“Right,” Sam replied automatically. She started to think about those other directions her mind had jumped towards and bit her lip. “Wait.”

“I can set my mom up with a nice condo where she can retire and not have to worry about anything. I can’t pass that up.”

“Wait. Did you dangle being my boyfriend in front of my father to get this thing?” That instant anger sparked in her gut again. “When did you apply?”

“Um,” but Lucas couldn’t answer the question without looking guilty. “It’s the leading facility for my field of research—”

“Your field?” Sam spat. She had to sit down, but she shook all the same. Then something else occurred to her. “Wait, what’s _my_ field, Lucas?”

“What?” He seemed baffled that they weren’t talking about him for once. He stammered, scratching his head in what looked like painful thought. “You don’t even go here officially. You…I don’t know, dabble in stuff.”

“You’ve asked me about the Avengers. You’ve asked me what little I know about my father. You’ve talked to me _and my father_ about your research, but you don’t know what I do and have never asked.”

“I mean, you’re not serious about any study, are you? You don’t have to be. You’re a Stark.”

“And you never needed to know anything about me personally, did you? You just needed to get to Tony…”

“No, that’s not how it started. We dated before—”

“Half a date,” Sam bellowed. “We went on _half_ a date before you knew who I was, and, oh, didn’t you call back fast the next day…how convenient you could get into a Stark’s pants? Hop, skip, and a bed away from the Stark payroll!”

“Sam,” Lucas tried to start but stopped in exasperation. “My work is everything to me.”

But Sam wasn’t close to done yet. “You knew exactly who I was, how old I was, how uninvolved in their world I _actually_ am, and you _knew,”_ she added particular venom to this one, “I had never been ‘involved’ with anyone before.”

“To be fair, I thought you felt like this wasn’t going to last, too. I was waiting for you to tell me it was over.”

Sam stood in the middle of the living room, a wooden spoon in her hand and her sleep shorts on, unable to process that kind of illogical stupidity.

“You no longer wanted to be near me, but you kept calling to talk about your research and having me over to your apartment and being my date to a wedding and talking to my father…because you thought that I would _stop caring_. What the ever-loving fu—”

“No, that’s not what I meant—”

“You…” Sam suddenly stopped. It made perfect sense. This mediocre, self-centered, Twenter boy who never bothered to ask Sam anything about her real interests and work stood there poised to have the upper hand in an emotional argument…encounter? Breakup? That was the reality. Sam was being broken up with, to her face, for the first time. Tony had quietly handed her off. Sam Wilson had faded into the shadows. Clint had convinced her Harvard was for her own good. Now Lucas Sommerson stood there telling her this was what she wanted, that it was for the best, that she was really meant for something bigger, better. Sam couldn’t argue with him there. So she did the one thing she always stopped herself from doing in front of Lucas: Sam put his brain to shame.

“Your power supply is off because you don’t account for the limitations of space-safe materials required to minimize fire and exposure degradation. You don’t even attempt to alter the orientation and possible decentralization of your unit because you probably want it to be a box labeled ‘Sommerson Stasis’ or something ridiculous like that, but if you go to Stark Industries, nothing you create or have created is now your intellectual property. I pity you, honestly. If none of this occurred to you before…there’s not much hope that you’ll live up to the fellowship expectations.” For added salt in the wound, Sam warned, “your mom shouldn’t quit her day job.”

“Alright…” Lucas mumbled, stuck on some shocking revelation early in her rant and unable to listen further. “I’m gonna go.”

“You do that,” Sam regurgitated gratefully.

Lucas cocked an eyebrow but made no reply. Sam didn’t remember him leaving or how long she stood there before the sizzling pops of her food boiling over brought her back. She returned to the kitchen on autopilot, shaking in her inability to process…what? That he didn’t want her? That she hadn’t seen this coming? That she didn’t feel the emotions she thought she would? Sadness, yes, but sad for wasting valuable time attempting a physical connection when she could have been working. Anger, yes, but angry for her father’s interference when perhaps, as Sam Barton, Lucas would have loved her more. Frustration, yes, but frustrated by her lack of understanding of human behavior when she was smart enough to run circles around them all.

Sam slid the cork pot rest over and slammed the ruined pasta down, not realizing her fingers were still under the pot. She ripped her burning hand away and grabbed for pained her fingers, but was still tangled enough around the handle to tip the pot forward off the counter. The contents drenched her legs, splashing everywhere.

She could smell the flesh before she felt the pain. She sucked in her breath, trying not to scream. She held her unburned arm over her mouth and pressed it there to muffle the noise. The pool on the floor still scalded her feet, and Sam fell backwards. The landing made her bite into her arm and bend her burned knees, pulling weak and aching skin. She bit down harder, tasting blood mixed with the tears streaming down her face. She could feel everything; she couldn’t cover her scream anymore.

Even though her mouth opened, only a strangled howl came out. The screaming did not help the pain, so Sam grabbed a leg of the kitchen table and pulled, hard, to heave herself out of the bowling puddle. The table screeched across the floor a few inches with her weight. She pulled up her torso to lean against the leg. Sam closed her eyes. Even her eyes burned with smoke and steam and salty tears.

When she dared to open them, she really saw—boiling water and penne pooled under her heels, spattered crimson marks down her legs speckled with blistering skin, bleeding fingers on one hand, and a vivid, bloody bite mark above her ugly brown bike scar. She looked at her shorter leg, and for more reasons than pain, Sam screamed.

She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there, crying, but when she finally moved, the puddle of water felt cool. Each movement was excruciating. Her phone still sat face down on the table. She began to dial 911 but couldn’t bring herself to press ‘call.’ She wouldn’t give Lucas the satisfaction of knowing he’d upset her. No one could know how weak she was. She couldn’t call Laura or Clint and put them through the hospital again. She couldn’t stand to see Natasha’s disapproving face. No one should have to lie for her anymore…

…but there was no way she could face Tony. What would she even say?

_Yeah, I’ve almost died before. I was bullied. I stole. I broke a bunch of bones. My growth was permanently stunted. I have no skills and no formal, recognized education. Your daughter is basically Quasimodo. So, like, pick me up in fifteen?_

Sam had slowly dragged her way to the front door, then it hit her. This was her opportunity, her _only_ shot. She turned to climb, stair by stair, on two burned feet, bending two burned knees, dripping blood from her fingers, and shaking. If it didn’t work, she’d just have to live like this as her punishment. She could think of nothing else by the time she made it to her room.

Sam grabbed the syringe, needle and two vials at the front of her cooler. She grabbed a cable from the drawer and plugged one end into her computer tower.

“Okay, Missy,” Sam panted.

“Yes, Ms. Stark?”

“Use Port D’s auxiliary attachment to compile data. Label all files under ‘test subjec—” She sucked in air harshly, sliding the monitoring glove over her burnt and crushed fingers. “—’Test subject one,’ subcategory ‘dermis’ and—” From her slippery fingers, Sam dropped the second vial which burst as it hit the floor. _So much for the nerve-dampening agent_. Now, she’d feel everything.

“Yeah, no additional subcategory. Ready, Missy?”

“Running data capture now.”

Sam eyed the other vial. _Now or never_. Afraid of ruining her last chance from slick fingers, Sam filled the syringe with as much of the virus as possible, desperate to control her breath and her twitching hand. She only had 72ml to dose the entire surface of her skin. She tried to focus on how spread out she could manage and how specific she could be at depressing the plunger. She’d still have to eyeball each injection. Shock was settling in. Sam started on her shins, the farthest and hardest to reach area. She managed approximately 10ml each, so she repeated this on each thigh, once in each arm, and the remainder in her torso.

It felt like sitting in a hot tub with the blazing sun beating down. Her skin warmed, crawled, and burned like she was trapped under covers she couldn’t remove. Then her outsides caught ablaze, or might as well have, like skin drying out as you stand too close the fire pit, tight and raw.

Before darkness enveloped her completely, she heard Missy ask “is everything alright, Samantha?” It was the first time Missy had ever used her proper name. That made one entity on Earth concerned for Sam Stark.

**End of Part I**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you intrigued? Liking the characters? Hating the characters? I'd love to know. Please consider a comment if something could be improved! Thank you for reading!!!


	12. Mind: Waking

**Part II: Mind**

CHAPTER TWELVE—July 2038

The bus to New York was overly air conditioned to counteract a hot summer outside. Sam pulled down the baseball cap she’d pilfered from Cooper and Annie’s room and pulled her long sleeves over her hands. Everything was pins and needles even when she sat still. She shouldn’t have dropped the nerve dampener.

She’d woken up on the floor of her lab five days ago. While unconscious, she had vomited, but since she hadn’t eaten her penne, it was only bile. When she sat up, Sam found all her hair had fallen out into a pile underneath her head, but it was _all_ her hair, her whole body, eyelashes and eyebrows too. The monitoring cuff was still attached to her hand, but she had ripped the cord out of Missy’s tower at some point.

That didn’t matter, however, because while Sam was out cold on the floor, Missy had found the compatible neural regeneration virus among the samples. She’d have to test her own skin and DNA later, side effects be damned.

Sam harvested enough of the virus and prepared to travel.

Then she had looked in the mirror, finally. That was quite horrifying. She’d looked like a bizarre, animated mannequin. She would have to spruce up a bit, and luckily, a girly-girl with a makeup fetish lived downstairs.

Sam attempted to draw on approximately fifteen sets of eyebrows, but she always looked shocked. She gave up and let Missy map her face to show her exactly where to put them and in what shape. The worst part was not touching her skin after the makeup was on. Her skin crawled, and Sam found it difficult not to scratch her face and head. There was hope the hair-loss was temporary, however, because after just four days the prickles of new growth returned. Missy made note that the follicles within the dermis must not have died but simply been temporary overwritten in function. There was so much observation that would have to wait. Sam Wilson had already waited long enough.

The bus stopped at the outskirts of Avengers’ Compound property, and Sam descended the stairs shakily. She was glad to be rid of the staring passengers, for as much as she’d tried not to look suspicious, choosing navy sweatpants and light sneakers and shirt, she still stood out for being covered up on a hot day. Once off the bus, Sam pulled out her Stark smartpad.

“Missy?”

“Yes, Samantha?” her AI replied in the communication earbud.

“Be ready to execute program Blindspot.”

* * *

“Sorry, Sam, Tony isn't here,” Bruce said when he saw her walk in. He did a double take at her completely buzzed head, even though most was covered by her cap. It wouldn’t be possible to hide the hair she used to have under that hat. “What did you do?!” Before she could even walk across the room, he corrected himself. “I mean, it looks… you're really making a statement. Are you?”

“No, Bruce, the bus was cold. I just tried something new, and it turns out it's not really my thing. Now I have to buy a few more hats,” Sam joked, smiling as she looked over the gear on his work table. She didn’t dare pick anything up for fear he would see her shaking. “So what are you up to?”

As Sam scanned the mirror-image of his projected screen, Bruce continued to stare at the young woman’s sheared head. “Your Dad is gonna freak out.”

She didn't skip an instant. “Hopefully he will never see it. I just need you to give me a new project, and I'll be out of your hair.” She frowned, adding, “pun unintentional but pretty good…”

Bruce began to unclench. After all the pictures Nat showed him of Sam’s different hair styles and colors over the past few years, this was the most…what should he call it? Adventurous? Angst? Wrong? Just as practically terrible as it was wonderfully hilarious.

“You couldn’t have just called?”

Sam’s voice got a little deeper. “Would you have picked up?”

Dr. Banner knew he’d been distant. He now went months at a time without so much as checking in. That’s what everyone did to her eventually. “I’m sorry. I don’t have a lot of extra time, Sam. This,” he gesture to his work, “it's complicated. I’m barely muddling through—”

Sam noticed a bit of formula that intrigued her. He was still trying to harness the energy of the infinity stones in a controlled environment, pairing them to be precise. The problem seemed to be what carrier mechanism to use.

Bruce saw how Sam studied the screen and started to tilt the monitor away from her. “That’s not…You shouldn’t have anything to do with that—”

“Ya know, if you could,” Sam interjected, looking away, fumbling with junk on the counter,, “use the mind and soul stones to recreate Vision. Aunt Wanda would love that. But he would only be a close approximation, assuming you have as much footage of his mannerisms and speech pattern. Oh, but that would be Jarvis.” Sam slipped Missy into the pile while she replaced each piece sloppily. “There is still the possibility you would generate an alternate personality, like a psychopathic robot killer, oh wait…Tony did that. Wanda may kill literally everyone if you dangled him in front of her enough.” She had to walk a fine line of irritating Bruce, but not angry, and giving him more to think about on top of all of his current work..

“Sam, how do you know anything about,” he waved his arm into the paused screen, “this?”

She was no actress, but she had the brainpower to over-analyze most of her performance and correct herself. “That's why I'm here, Bruce, because I'm drowning in a bunch of information I already know, and I want, I _need_ something new!” She removed her cap and rubbed the exposed stubble of hair in frustration, and demanded, “so for the love of all innovation, can you throw me a bone?” Sam saw a tiny light come on at the base of her tablet. Blindspot had started. Missy was in action. However, she hadn’t intentionally distracted the doctor with her itchy head.

Bruce blinked. Everything about Sam was a minefield for him. She was the perfect representation of what he wanted and could never have; a perfect little girl, smart as a whip, grown into a curious young women, but she was brutally human: fragile, mortal, emotional, sensitive, cocky and awkward. She was the more dangerous version of Tony Stark because she was genuinely likable. It made Bruce Banner all the more terrified of killing her, or rather of Hulk killing her, as he almost did once.

“Well, I could,” he started mumbling, grabbing his tablet, “give you access to some files… Sam, I don’t know.” He stopped. Years ago he could barely look at her without a cold wave of guilt pumping in place of his blood. He had been so convinced that he would never, ever hurt her, but how was Hulk supposed to know that? Sam was the closest thing he had to a daughter and felt nothing but blessed that she shared interests with him. She was a lot nicer to him than Tony, but Bruce didn't know how to work right beside her. “Can you just wait until Tony gets back and ask him?”

“Sure, I can wait another 13 years and see if he cares by then…”

“I…” Bruce removed his glasses, more stressed by the family dynamic than the galactic problem in front of him.

“Because you love me, Uncle Bruce?”

“Let me think about it—”

“I could help with…” Sam coached, but she cut in too soon. Bruce's energy changed without any physical movement, and suddenly, Sam was positive he was about to throw her out of the building. She had to get to work before Missy’s program was detected, or Hulk killed her for being annoying. “Or I could leave you with your thoughts while I get us some coffee,” she said, retreating to the exit. _No stimulants_ , she reminded herself, _especially now_. “Treat you to a fizzy water with lime,” she yelled as the door shut behind her, pausing to make sure no smashing noises followed.

* * *

With any luck, Bruce had thrown himself back into research or was distracted by what he should do with Sam. He couldn’t be casually paying attention to anything else. However, there had to be footage of Sam going to get coffee and sitting down in the more private residence kitchenette for Missy to loop. There would be no one there because of the training exercises being run in the Eastern Hall and its adjacent field. _Thank you organized, calendar-keeper Friday._

After Sam had remained comfortably seated, half-obscured, at the far corner of the kitchen countertop, at the edge of the security camera’s field of vision, routinely lifting her mug to her face and placing it back, she heard a small tonal signal. Missy was looping the footage. She could go to the infirmary without being seen. She rounded a corner just as the nurse left Wilson’s room. This sneaking around reminded her of plundering the medical building, and she’d studied just as hard to ensure this was successful. Nurses made rounds every half hour or so, but since Falcon’s condition had not changed in weeks, it was likely no one would be back for over an hour. Sam didn’t need that long, but it was reassuring.

This time no music playing in his room. The only sounds were his various monitors.

He looked skinnier; his cheeks sunk over the past weeks and while not visible at the moment, she was sure his arms and legs had begun to atrophy. Looking at him laying there in the hospital bed, Sam thought about the possibility that her experiment wouldn’t work. She could have done all the testing in the world, and it might still not work on Sam Wilson. Could she take that risk? She had no right to choose for him, technically alive but officially brain dead as he was. Sam Stark knew what _she_ would choose to do, but she was not Sam Wilson.

If she was a soldier who’d seen all Falcon had, if she had a team of friends, if she had the important job of defending the world, if she had the possibility of flying and fighting again, even the possibility, would she take the risk? He _had_ chosen, years ago, to use experimental flight equipment in combat. He had seen that equipment kill his friend Riley and still flown with EXO-7. He’d been injured in the wings before and still flown, still strapped himself back in for another mission. So his answer seemed even more obvious, but the pit in her stomach remained.

Little Sam took Big Sam’s hand once again, ignoring the pins and needles running all over herskin with the contact. Her twitching made his lax hand twitch too. She could feel the calluses on his palm. He would be mad at how ashy his knuckles had become.

“If this doesn’t work,” she whispered, “for whatever reason, or it’s not what you want…” She looked at his unmoving face with the rhythmically fogging mask. “I _swear_ to you I will make it right, but for now, however, I need you to wake up.”

“Four minutes,” Missy’s automated signal warned in her ear.

Samantha pulled out the lipstick tube she had hollowed out to hide the vial for Wilson. _Sorry, Annie,_ she thought, _I’ll_ _replace your Berry Kiss shade later_. Sam grabbed a needle and dosed Falcon’s IV, watching for a reaction as long as possible. No immediate signs of allergy or cardiac distress. No blood pressure drops or spikes on his monitors. No rise in brain wave activity either, but she only had a few minutes to watch.

“One minute,” Missy signaled, followed by second beeps. Samantha hauled ass on her choreographed path for Missy’s visual coverage and grabbed her still-warm mug off the countertop, sitting as still as she could until the beeps stopped. She took a long, casual sip, finishing the remainder. She counted to five, looked out the window, and slowly swirled her finger around the mug’s rim. It was a move she’d planned, thinking it was a carefree gesture that would really sell how long she’d taken to drink one cup of coffee. She was very proud of her performance.

When she returned to Dr. Banner’s lab with a seltzer, he was not even there. She hadn’t seen him in the hall. She hadn’t passed anyone coming back. Sam didn’t know whether that was common during training in this facility since she hadn’t spent significant time inside it in the last decade. It was probably for the best; the fewer people to see her hair the better. _You’d think there would be better physical presence. They rely too heavily on technology._ But Sam knew she couldn’t hang around to figure it all out. She could monitor Sam Wilson’s progress, if any, from Missy at her home.

She found her tablet where she’d hidden it, still face down. Sam quietly said “subset beta five ex” to unlock the phone, but nothing flashed across the screen. Instead Missy’s calm tone promptly replied “download complete.” _And they’re not even that safe with all the technology they do have._ To be fair, however, both Sam and Missy were born of the Stark family and their minds; why would the Avengers need protection from them? The Avengers had no idea who they were…or what they could do.

* * *

Bucky stared down Sharon Rogers. They stood in the kitchen, unwilling to let the other do the harder task of cleaning the dishes after lunch.

“You’re our guest. If you’re going to do anything, it’s dry,” Agent 13 insisted.

“It’s your home. You do everything else, so you can let me do this _one_ thing.” Bucky looked at Steve as if the giant blond man could help him change her mind.

“This is the most,” Steve snorted, “domestic thing I’ve ever seen, Buck. Are you even good at washing? We wouldn’t want you to rust.” Steve was confident that his seat at the table was a safe distance from his best friend’s clenched metal fist.

“Shut the hell up, jerk. I’m trying to be nice. Give me the plate, Sharon,” Bucky added forcefully.

She handed it over as if the flatware were a live weapon, backing away towards Steve. She muffled a giggle, interrupted by the phone ringing before she could sit down. Her husband enjoyed the seclusion and formality of a land-line, a holdout from his youth. Sharon waved Steve to stay seated and grabbed the receiver.

“Hello,” she answered, “Bruce slow down—”

Steve instinctively tensed while Bucky dropped a cup into the sink. Sharon’s face dropped into mission concentration.

“Alright, they’re on their way. I’ll be along later.” She hung up. “Go, boys, I’ve got those. Sam’s awake.”

Bucky didn’t even dry his hands. Steve was out the door after a peck on Sharon’s cheek.

Bucky paused in the hall to yell back, “I chipped your glass,” adding a guilty “sorry” before shutting the door with his dripping hand.

* * *

“I am not going to be pushed around in a damn wheelchair,” Sam Wilson roared at the nurse. Steve stepped closer to help his friend up. “If you put me in that chair, Rogers, I will break both of your super legs. I’m on your right, mother—”

“Ok, pal,” Steve cut in, “how about I walk with you outside for a bit.”

The nurse leaned over to Bucky. “Irritability is pretty normal for a while after head injury,” she whispered, “but maybe the fewer people the better for a little longer. See how he does.”

Bucky nodded, and the nurse waived her colleague out of the room. “Enjoy your walk, sir. We will resume your tests later.” Falcon almost snarled at the poor woman.

Bucky stood between the newly-wakened Avenger and the staff. “Are you gonna break my legs, too?”

Wilson fumed but tossed his arm over Roger’s shoulder. “Anyone asks, you tell them I’m drunk and that’s why my ASS IS HANGING OUT,” Falcon spat at Bucky as they passed him into the hall.

“Inside voices, please,” Steve asked politely, his ear close to Sam’s potty mouth.

But Wilson didn’t stop. “Your sheets are scratchy,” he continued to yell down the corridor. “Anyone ever heard of lotion?!”

Bucky didn’t get the chance to follow. Bruce trapped him in the infirmary, mumbling something about integration failure.

“Barnes,” the doctor started, eyes flicking over his glasses, “I have a _favor_ to ask.”

“Please, don’t make me dress him, or supervise him, or do physical therapy with him. Please.”

“What? No,” Bruce removed his glasses, finally relaxing his arm chronically bent to hold his work tablet at eye level. “Are you still going to Wakanda? I have a passenger for you.”


	13. Deflection

CHAPTER THIRTEEN—July 2038

Tony couldn’t really focus on just one piece of the globe below, a vast marble rippled with land and sea, oasis and desert, life and death. The Avengers’ Satellite Station had launched only six years ago; it had taken that long to recover his wits and the integral structure that had exploded with…Pepper. This orbiting bulk was the reason her Memorial Garden had taken so long to build, and his mourning was the reason this orbiting bulk had taken another half-dozen years.

Orbit had its advantages, however, because it’s easier to notice a massive, red sinkhole leading to hell when staring down upon it. They may have never seen Mephisto coming from inside the Earth if not for being able to view a thousand miles within the space of an arm against the thick, triple pane fiberglass. That didn’t prepare Tony for who he would, and wouldn’t, see down there. Ever since Wanda had cut him off from such vivid experiences with Pepper, Tony lost so many of the minuscule details that kept her feeling real, kept her close to him. The delayed slipping away of his memory felt all the more tragic, for he had truly lost Pepper Potts long before he gave up on her. Loss seemed as inevitable as the rotation of the Earth below. You could change perspective to keep seeing what you wanted, but the surface would never stop moving away from your gaze.

Tony could sense a tentative presence at the door. He dropped his crossed, contemplative arms, turning to invite Maria inside. “What is it, Hill?”

The agent entered, holding up a slim file.

“It’s from the watch list. He was first mentioned in our interrogation of Simon Marshall, a pharmaceutical terrorist trying to create an ingestible drug to produce super soldiers…and he managed to alter several people. The unfortunate side effect was also to turn them into psychopaths.”

“To be fair, he probably just nudged them there,” Tony allowed. “Gimme.” He snatched the file from the agent. “Lem-u-el Dor-cas?” he snorted. “That is officially one of the worst names I’ve ever heard. It’s not even a syllable—it’s a _letter_ away from Doctor Dorks. Are people trying to make us not take them seriously? What’s this guy done that’s so bad, eh?”

“He may have been behind the stolen shipment of bio-samples last year.”

“Two letters away from Dork-Ass. I mean…come on. At least Klaue could be, ya know,” Tony looked up with outstretched fingers on an ominously tense hand, “scary, sorta.”

“Stark, this doctor has not only been linked to Professor Marshall but has also been linked to some created mutants. Unfortunately we do not have much information on those individuals or their abilities yet. We only know these were not given a little pill. Best guess so far is genetic manipulation.”

Tony shut the file and tossed it onto the nearest table. “Easy. Have Point Break electrocute him and send me the crispy bits. Next.” He looked around the lab, pushing some useless part over.

“That’s the thing, sir. Thor is currently off world helping the Guardians with annihilation—” she checked the file, “—Annihilus, ’scuse me, so you’re going to take the lead on this—”

“Are we trapped down there?” Tony gestured back to the view-ports.

Maria, after years of practice, snapped back and forth between Tony’s mangled thoughts easily. “We have protection, sir, more than most. You’ve put quite a bit of armor around the world now.”

“Yes, but how will people get away,” Tony whispered, “if I’ve locked them on a dying rock.”

“Sir?”

Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. Build a wall and moat to keep the enemy out, and still all you’ve done is kept your loved ones in the crosshairs and the target on your forehead. He thought of a promise he once made Pepper. “Hill, why didn’t you have kids?” He blurted after a bright bit of light in Florida caught his eye. Maria replied with a touchy and annoyed expression. He continued, “if you’d had children, at what age would Disneyland be out of the question?”

Maria hesitated, confused, but Tony did not let her form an answer before trying to dismiss the wayward thought. “Nevermind.”

“Sir, Sam may not—”

“So Dorkmeister-Flex is where exactly now?”

“The bad doctor was last credibly identified in Morocco. The Atlantian King Namor is concerned at that proximity to his nation.”

“So what you’re saying is I get to go on a lovely vacation and possible Safari hunt?”

“Stark—”

“Don’t worry. I won’t raid the mini-bar this time.” Tony launched into the air and via comms added, “and keep the missions coming. Friday will keep a running tab.”

“Of course, sir,” his AI promptly answered.

“Tony,” Maria jumped in before Stark could swivel quickly out of the room and ditch the station’s monotony, “Sam Wilson woke up.”

“Duh,” Tony brushed, tapping his glasses, “Friday is keeping me apprised.”

“And I’d say she’s too old.”

“I update her regularly.”

“Samantha, Tony, for Disney,” Maria clarified, but Tony didn’t miss a beat.

“On second thought,” he said, “I think Thor and Quill may need some adult supervision. You know how their pissing contests can get,” he twiddled his fingers in front of him, “messy.”

She held up the file, wiggling it to keep him on track.

“T’Challa can handle that, land and sea united and all. I’m contacting—what did Quill call this new ship?—Blondie?” Tony disappeared in the space-safe, modified quinjet. He had a fleeting thought that perhaps he should make a pitstop on Sakaar and take a break from the relentless passage of time. Time that only served to remind him of what he’d missed and could never have back.


	14. Rusted

CHAPTER FOURTEEN—August 2038

“I don’t think I should leave if something is wrong,” Bucky said, staring in at Sam Wilson reading a book while getting blood drawn in the lab.

“It’s not really…wrong. He just…” Bruce replied. He couldn’t explain it. Wilson adjusted holding his book with the hand not being stuck, showing the title _Total Applications of Quantum Field Theory._

Bucky pressed a finger against the two-way glass. “You don’t see anything wrong with that?” He scoffed, partly concerned for his friend, partly annoyed to be the chauffeur to a teen on a trip across the world. “Seriously?”

“Am I supposed to be panicked he’s got different interests since waking up? That’s not uncommon with head injury—”

Bucky fumed. “Everything weird is common with head injuries, apparently, because you people don’t know anything about them. It’s 2038!”

“You people? I think…I should be offended.” Bruce may have been completely jaded to ‘smartist’ mockery, but he also loved the chance to study such an extensive turnaround of Sam Wilson’s recovery. The patient remained irritable, sarcastic, and alert with full motor-function. He had occasional headaches but, most bizarrely, had developed not only an interest in but the ability to understand all sorts of scientific studies _quickly._ “Look, Bucky, you won’t be able to do anything if it is _wrong_ anyway. No offense. It’s not something you can just—” Bruce slowly swung his fist through the air, making a small ‘pow’ noise.

“Don’t do that.” Bucky said flatly.

Bruce pursed his mouth. He was definitely not the funniest Avenger, but he did try every so often, usually failing and immediately retreating to a cave of algorithms to plot his next joke. The team repeatedly called it ‘cute;’ Hulk didn’t like that distinction either. Hulk had toppled cities for less.

“I’ve got a couple data sets and stuff for Shuri, too. Let’s load up the quinjet and get you on the way. Looks like Little Sam is coming up the drive now,” Bruce continued, pointing out the far window.

Bucky groaned. The ball-capped girl trudged down the lane with two massive hard suitcases. She was barely big or strong enough to maneuver them, yet he watched as she waved off one of the security members who came over to help her. The guard pointed her in the direction of the landing pad. _Stubborn,_ Bucky internally groaned, _just like good ol’ Pa._ Bruce returned to shove a box of odds and ends against Bucky’s chest. The doctor looked at him seriously for a moment.

“I’m glad it’s you taking her. Also, don’t mention the,” and he waved a hand over his head. “Fair warning.”

* * *

Even though it was not necessary, Bucky made Sam strap herself into the chair up front, damned if he would be responsible for any other injury on Stark’s daughter. The two were quiet for all of takeoff, and they’d flown over nothing but water for a while before Bucky glanced over.

Samantha sat tucked up like a rolly-polly, craning her neck to look out the window curiously.

“You look like you’ve never flown before. Natasha’s taken you in one of these before, hasn’t she?”

“I’ve never crossed an ocean,” the girl replied in a voice so small he could hardly hear it.

That was a quaint notion. The Avengers bounced from continent to continent almost daily, occasionally planet to planet even, and Sam was afraid of a body of water. She rubbed her hands over her arms, stopping only to rub her legs. However, she still looked on, fascinated.

“Alright,” Bucky finally broke in after another half hour, “I’m gonna ask what I’m not supposed to.”

Sam looked up at him, shocked but quiet. Her brow furrowed in confusion.

“Are you harming yourself?” He regretted asking the second the words came out, but then he felt the impulse to double down. “I’m asking because the hair, and the scars on your arm, and the limp.”

“Those weren’t from—” Sam cut herself off. “No, Captain Barnes, I do not harm myself on purpose,” she chimed systematically.

His eyes flickered back over to her at the distinctive choice of words.

Sam looked at her feet. “There was an accident. The Bartons like to bike, motorcycles and dirt bikes specifically. I am…terrible at it, so the last time we did, I was behind Nate on his Ducati, and we crashed.”

“Why does Tony not know about this?”

“I was 14, and that was the day Clint told me Tony was sending me to boarding school. I…said some—I screamed several choice things and ran off. Nate came to find me, even though he was a jerk about it, and I got on his bike to go home.”

She stretched out her legs into a seated position. “When we were close enough to see Clint waving us back over, Nate raised his hand to waive and hit a ditch, but see, we were right by a bit of a hill. I went flying when Nate skid trying to correct us. They said I smacked a tree—” Sam grabbed her left arm, “—and then my momentum and weight snapped my leg.”

Bucky tried to imagine the absolute horror for the Bartons. If Bucky was so worried about strapping her in for one flight, how anxious must Clint have been… He knew immediately why someone wouldn’t tell Tony, if it was at all possible to hide it.

“Compound fracture of the left humerus. Compound fracture of the left femur. Damage to the growth plate, so my left leg stopped growing at age 14, resulting in a now one inch difference in length. I tried not to listen when they said how many pins were in there. I stared at the ceiling. They made Nat,” Sam swallowed, “explain why we couldn’t tell him. So I didn’t go to boarding school, and after four months I went to Harvard with Cooper. Well, I lived there.”

Bucky knew that stare, the one where you know the past can’t change so you stopped reliving it, the one where you try over and over to accept the hand you’re dealt, the one where you remember everything and feel nothing. Steve used to pull him out by recalling baseball stats incorrectly. Bucky would always snap out to rub his knowledge in that punk’s face. He could try a version of that on Sam Stark, something else for them to talk about.

“Sam, what’s quantum field theory?”

She didn’t change her gaze but scrunched her nose in thought. “Um, like which area do you want? Electromagnetic? Chromodynamic?”

 _Well, that was nice while it lasted_ , Bucky thought, already lost.

“Do you know what normalization is?” she continued.

So she couldn’t pick up on hints either… “How about like I’m from the 1940s,” Bucky requested.

“Well, they knew some bits in the 20s—”

Bucky frowned on purpose, deeply, comically.

“Right. Basically,” Sam thought out loud, making a roundabout motion with her hands, “how… stuff interacts within a—where it is.”

“What stuff?”

“Subatomic particles.”

“Ok, and we’re done with that.” Bucky had zero intention of going back to the tiny feeling of not following the teacher in school, but he could still gain some context for Falcon. “How smart do you need to be to understand that stuff?”

Sam sat, confused. “That’s not a quantifiable question. It’s not a specific neural requirement.”

“Nineteen-forties—”he reminded through gritting teeth.

“It’s my personal belief that you can learn anything if you have the right teacher. If you make the subject relatable and applicable to something in your life, you remember it. So instead of starting with _quantum_ field theory, you could begin with the _psychological_ field theory or how _people_ interact with where _they_ are.”

Although a perfectly reasonable association, Bucky snorted. “You don’t get out much, do you?”

“You know that I don’t. Why else would I be so excited to leave the country I’ve been in my whole life?”

“Is that why you’re so…fidgety?”

“No.” She continued to scratch and shift in her seat.

“Do you have a rash?”

“Why did you ask about field theory? Uncle Bruce need a book club buddy or something?”

“Sam, I mean, Big Sam was reading a book.”

Samantha’s eyes grew wide, and her head snapped over to look at him. To his surprise, she seemed just as concerned as he was.

“Thank you! That’s weird, right?”

“He…” She tried to get a spot behind her right shoulder blade. “You mean, he can follow—he is learning very quickly?”

“Essentially. It’s like he woke up and was smarter.”

“I feel like Big Sam would be a little offended—”

“That’s not what I mean,” Bucky sighed, but Sam had already quieted.

“So,” she began after a long pause, “how worried are you?”

“It’s not exactly a health risk, to be smarter, but I just—what else could change?”

Little Sam remained silent this time, holding one arm against her chest, seemingly lost in thought. When Bucky’s eyes flicked over to see if she was even still sitting there, he saw her staring at him. He looked again. She wasn’t staring at him per say, but her eyes were fixed on his metal arm. Loads of people still stared at the arm, so in public he covered it with clothes and a glove. He thought back to the wedding. He’d been covered; she couldn’t have seen it then. Didn’t she already know about it? Suddenly, he wished he’d worn more cover than tank top even if it was summer and they were flying to an African nation close to the equator. Why would Sam still be wearing sweats? He glanced again. She was still clutching her left arm against her.

“Are you in pain?” Bucky asked.

Sam snapped back to reality, suddenly guilty and ashamed at her rudeness. She didn’t convey the same in her response, abruptly announcing, “I’m tired. Can I go lie down?” She didn’t wait for a response, either, and unbuckled to rush back into the jet’s cargo area.

 _Teenagers,_ Bucky thought.


	15. Judgement

CHAPTER FIFTEEN—August 2038

Sam remained curled in a corner of the cargo hold, texting with Missy on her tablet until they landed. She watched more archive footage of her father working on Mark XLII, the prehensile suit that operated by trackers injected under his skin. She listened to Jarvis warn Tony that the chips had not been properly tested and watched him inject them nonetheless, over and over, all over his body. It gave her hope to see him. Sam was a Stark; she’d keep innovating, just like Tony, and since Starks were smart enough to take the _right_ risks, she’d live to create even more. Eventually, her skin would be fine…she hoped. Wakanda would offer a golden opportunity to learn even more, to see what she and Missy could accomplish together. It would all be fine once her skin stopped crawling and she could sweat again.

Sam needed to take real notes on the developing side effects of her dermal Extremis injection. She needed a secure and sterile space to take samples. Shuri was a legend in Sam’s studies; Wakandan telecommunications, armor, medical care, and weaponry had no competition the world over. She was excited to work with the Princess. 

The welcome party was mercifully small, but still included several of the most important people in the country. King T’Challa himself stood poised to greet his old friend, and Princess Shuri giggled beside her brother, talking excitedly to someone on her Kimoyo beads until seeing Bucky emerge from the quinjet.

“Captain Barnes,” Shuri exclaimed, “you’ve brought me gifts!” Bucky handed her the crate Banner had given him in New York. “And Miss…” but the princess never finished her thought. The handful of Wakandans all stared at Sam, still wearing a hat and casual clothing.

The warrior Okoye leaned over to the king, whispering, “is it a girl?”

Bucky removed the ball cap from Sam’s head, mumbling “king” to correct the teenager’s disrespect. It was the first time Sam felt direct sunlight on her scalp and felt particularly scorched by the heat.

“Samantha Stark, welcome,” T’Challa acknowledged, turning to smile at Bucky, “and our White Wolf returns. It is good to see you, my friend. Wakanda has missed you.”

“Never found anyone else to make fun of?” Bucky smiled back as the two embraced.

“Never,” the king replied.

“He knows it’s him. King or not, my brother makes himself so easy to mock.” Shuri and Okoye traded a knowing look and turned to walk with the group inside.

After a moment’s frivolity, the king and his sister became very serious and started speaking of someone named Batroc. Sam didn’t pay much attention to their conversation into a towering building that looked more like a tech campus than a palace. She turned back to ensure her cases of samples and Missy’s hardware were handled gently. When Sam glanced up from her feet after entering the tower, General Okoye stood with a wig in her outstretched hand.

“Put this on. It will look better than _that_ ,” Okoye said, pointing at Sam’s exposed head.

“Thank you?” Sam took the glossy brown curls from the glamorous and deadly warrior. She was not sure how self-conscious to be until the tall warrior gave a small, fake smile.

”I don’t want anyone mistaking you for a Dora Milaje,” Okoye added, winking at Sam before returning to the procession through the halls.

Sam awkwardly adjusted the itchy wig over her sensitive scalp and moved forward as quickly as she could. She stood in a corner of the throne room as all the pleasentries of the crown were traded, a few stories retold and laughed at, and then most broke off into smaller groups to chat.

Shuri spotted Sam in the corner after she gave directions to a guard of where to put Bruce’s crate. “Dr. Banner did not give me much notice you were coming.” The princess gave an apologetic shrug of her shoulders, continuing, “I’ve many projects to complete, and soon, and I won’t be able to teach anything to you directly for now. So,” she rattled, not waiting for a reply, “you may go to whatever lessons are being held in this building or amuse yourself with studying the scrap technologies in the bone yard, but there are no bones there. You’ll see.” With a wave of her hand, Shuri was off to her other important work.

* * *

After a briefing on the several minor attacks and plots on or near Wakanda, which Bucky had to admit was an increasing problem all over the world, he was allowed to go settle in for the night. He was not sleepy, not wired, but a little restless. His single duffle tapped against his back on the trek home. Held in his left hand, Bucky could control its movement, but he still could feel nothing up to the middle of his pectoral and scapula. He was so used to the blank spot in his perception. Years of training and intuition, weeks with no limb to utilize at all, and he could do pretty much anything with or without the attachment; anything, that is, except feel what was there.

The rest of Bucky, however, felt lighter already, standing by his old hut outside of the palace grounds. There were new sheep in the pen but the same gentle bleating. While the sun set in the most glorious of bold yellows and burnt oranges, he thought of how much he had missed this place. In a way, this land was a birth place for him, where life after Hydra began without a head full of hissing snakes. They weren’t kidding about two replacing one; each voice he had managed to smother returned with a new venom. This place, its people, its technology had saved him. Shuri in particularly had led Bucky through the maze of his own mind and out the other side, with humor and compassion no less. As far as he was concerned, the entire nation was a rare and blessed gem.

What it lacked, however, was proximity to his most treasured friends, and in the failing light of dusk, he dialed his comms. “Steve, how’s Sam?”

“Buck, you’ve been gone twenty hours.”

 _Yes, Captain Obvious, you’re smart as a tack to count that high._ “How is he though? Any change?”

“Not noticeably,” Steve sighed. “He ate some pudding without making a ‘chocolate’ joke, so he’s obviously a completely different person and is dying. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“What is it with you people,” Bucky burst. “Even if the change isn’t hurting him, shouldn’t we be figuring out why he’s…different.”

“Look, this is how I see it. He may not have been on ice or out as long as we were,” Steve let it get very quiet on the phone before continuing, “but he still has some catching up to do and maybe his perspective on life is a bit…adjusted. Near death experiences will do that to a guy.”

Bucky breathed heavily over the phone, saying nothing.

“Or he’s having a midlife crisis,” Steve added after a minute.

“Damn it, Steve. You’re a punk,” Bucky groaned.

“You sound like a concerned mom, jerk. Give Sam a break. He’s healing and needs some time…and patience.” Steve let out another long breath before adding, “speaking of, how was a long flight with a teenager?”

“That’s not funny.” Bucky ran his hands over his face. “She’s worse than Stark.”

“She is a Stark.”

“No, I mean, this kid…” How would he explain her? She was rude and blunt and shy and almost unintelligible to someone without a PhD, but Sam Stark was all of those things only because she had _zero_ experience with other people. “She could have everything, do anything, and she chooses to sit in a corner with a screen. She’s an awkward know-it-all.”

“Buck, that’s every teenager,” Steve chuckled, but hearing the silence from the other end, became serious again. “Was she bugging you the whole time? Correcting you?”

“No,” Bucky answered dryly, “she just…thinks she has the answer to everything, acting all high and mighty. Although, she’s definitely got no fight in her. I have never seen someone so uncomfortable in their skin…”

“Well, she sounds better than us growing up.”

“Hardy-har.”

“So, if we locked Tony in a room with his toys for a decade and then saw what popped out…?”

Bucky answered with confidence. “More like Banner, but probably just after a few days.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah.”

“Listen, Buck. I’ve decided,” Steve’s stoic drawl sounded over the phone, “I’m coming back to the team, just while Wilson recovers here.”

“Did you ask the ol’ ball and chain?”

“Sharon could probably kill you, ya know.”

Now it was Bucky’s turn to chuckled, even though they did this every time.

“Also,” Steve continued, “she’d like $15.99 for the glass you broke.”

“ _What!_ ” Bucky still had trouble believing the cost of things now. When he and Steve were young, everything was measured in cents not whole dollars. When he heard people speak of billions of dollars, like what Stark had, Bucky could feel his brain melt a little. “Just tell her to rub some superglue over it.”

“Honestly, I did,” Steve mumbled, amused. There was a pause, and Bucky could hear Banner’s low drawl in the background. “Well, don’t shoot anyone, Buck. Talk later.”

“You’re such a—” but Steve had hung up before he could finish.

* * *

Sam sat in a pile of Wakandan ’bones,’ shards and remnants, unused pieces of projects past. Not a lot went to waste here, and it was possible that nothing remained in this pit for long. Except she’d sat here for over an hour with no one coming to find her, no one showing her where her things had been taken, and no one telling her where her room was. It was growing dark by the time Sam got up the courage to call Bucky on her tablet she’d kept in her pocket.

He was gruff on the phone and obviously annoyed that she hadn’t asked for help while there had still been people around in the palace. Nearly half an hour later, Bucky stood over Sam at the edge of the hill.

“Seriously?” He lifted his arms in disbelief. “Have you even eaten yet?”

“I’m not hungry,” Sam mumbled, grabbing her tablet and messenger bag and hurriedly shuffling beside his brisk pace. “I…do they have coffee here? I could go for that.”

“In the morning,” her guide responded, thoroughly annoyed. “Let’s get you settled in. Pay attention to our path in the halls.”

Sam twirled her souvenir lump of vibranium from the bone yard in her hand. _Looks like I travelled across the world to be cozy in a closed room with my thoughts; how different…_


	16. Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I don't know how or why it worked out that the sixteenth chapter is named Seventeen, but c'est la vie. Thanks for reading!

CHAPTER SIXTEEN—November 2038

It was a good thing Sam was used to being alone since Bucky did not return to see her the next day or the day after that. Sam had adjusted the wig as best she could to go find some food and coffee, but it quickly became obvious that the food she did find did not agree with her. Nothing stopped the vibrating itch radiating all over; her body simply couldn’t regulate her temperature or eliminate enough waste without sweating. She began syphoning off some resources from the med lab to create an IV and a simple liquified meal to have once a day. Sam refused to give up the coffee though, and even grew to like the strong tea offered as well. Eventually, due to decay in her muscle after a serious loss of her subcutaneous fatty layer, she had to submerge herself in a nutrient bath, the basis of which she derived from Missy’s research on a failed cure attempt for her Uncle Bruce and the Hulk.

Sam knew this was only a temporary solution to a slow-moving problem, but she had no plans to waste time on a small fix for cosmetic breakthrough. She became very good at placing an IV and amused herself by drinking her bizarre and unappetizing smoothies while thinking of the similar sludges her father used to consume.

She continued to roll the lump of vibranium in her palm over and over until a project occurred to her. Sam set Mistress on the task of finding her information, and to her surprise, she hit the jackpot. It no longer mattered that no one talked to her or visited; she was back to tinkering.

“Missy, I need you to filter the nutrient bath. Do you have that file on Vision’s cradle body? How much vibranium did it require? What percentage was metal and what was organic material?”

“I’ve compiled a summary for you, Sam. Beginning filtering: estimated time twelve minutes.”

“How refined can we make this?” Sam tossed the metal ball back and forth between hands. “Small enough to infuse tissue? What about the cradle? Can it graft this into tissue?”

“Calculating,” Missy replied.

“Pull up Sam Wilson’s file from headquarters. I wanna read their updates.”

The documents popped up beside dozens of other processes running on her monitor. Missy continued her summary. “Cognitive function has leveled out after the initial rise in activity. Several anomalous instances of memory loss have been recorded.”

“Alright, keep me posted.”

“Ms. Stark,” her AI returned to formality, “the results of your scans following each submergence show no change—”

“That’s enough,” Sam stopped Missy. She looked around her plain lower-level room. Sam had replaced the bed with a makeshift regeneration cradle capable of holding the nutrient gel. Every drawer in the room contained bits of hardware, scraps of vibranium, and research. Empty coffee cups filled the trash. She washed her three outfits in the bathroom sink. She kept the wig combed but rarely needed it; Sam almost never spoke to anyone, and no one really spoke to her.

“Alright, Missy, let’s test a square inch of skin and record time the machine takes and the regeneration rate of my skin. Then we’ll test the area for deterioration in either tissue or structural integrity of the metal.”

“Sampling suggests minimal damage to either once the graft takes effect,” Missy chirped, almost sounding proud. “However, for live sampling, I suggest the nutrient bath immediately after the procedure.”

“Sounds good, Missy. Go ahead and get the cradle ready for the patch test.” Sam could hardly contain her excitement, but she shook more from nerves than happiness. The joy would have to come when she was successful, and not a moment before, because until then Sam was just another pale nerd tucked in a basement thinking herself the smartest person on Earth. _If this does work_ , she thought, _happy birthday to me indeed_ …

* * *

December 6th in the depths of space with an enormous putz like Drax the Annoyer was brutal. It was difficult to tell what time it was on Earth, and genuinely Tony did not know for sure that it was the 6th yet or if the day had already passed. He just wanted to have a thought to himself; he wasn’t allowed to on this ship.

“Robot Man,” Drax yelled, making Tony jump. They were a maximum of two feet apart.

“I’m iron, okay? _Iron_ Man.”

Drax snorted. “Your suit would be crumpled into a ball by now. It cannot be made of iron. You have made a poor choice in weaponry,” the tattooed behemoth cackled at his own skills of observation. Meanwhile, Tony lamented that his skills of sarcasm and pop culture nicknamery were completely wasted in the void above a planet with these…idiots. Gamora was the only sensible one among them, the only one Tony could talk to, but she wanted nothing to do with him. “We eat and strategize now,” Drax exclaimed after composing himself.

Rocket started off the meal with a riveting breakdown of his knowledge so far on the Annihilus threat. Negative-energy signatures in key parts of the galaxy, each representing a breach between their enemy’s dimension and theirs, populations ravaged by an associate of their target named Blastaar, a name which Tony thought was a little too on-the-nose even compared to ‘Annihilus,’ and finally, a holographic map of their movements, suggesting a culmination in the central point of Earth. _Wonderful,_ Tony thought, _more work._

“This doesn’t look good,” Peter Quill, ever stating the bare minimum, mumbled.

“Thanos had a weak alliance with this—this creature from someplace called the Negative Zone,” Gamora explained, “he used to talk about how, with the universe’s population cut in half, the sparsely habited Negative Zone could expand freely. It’s only taken them this long because their dimension doesn’t have the resources Thanos had.”

“I am Groot.” Tony gave the tree the same confused look he gave it _every_ time it said this.

“No, we can’t just blow them to smithereens,” Rocket responded, then he mumbled, “others tried that. Plus they defeated some guys named the Fashion Four—”

“Fantastic Four,” Gamora corrected.

Rocket paused a moment. “Can we really call them fantastic if they’re dead?”

“The point is,” Gamora took over, “that we need allies and far more fire power. Blastaar is a living bomb. I believe Thanos did not openly partner with them for fear they would betray his plan for all out genecide and enslavement.”

“Isn’t that a cozy thought,” Quill said. “I’ll need a few more tunes for my iPod nano, but then I’m ready to kick some ass.”

“Dude, stop trying. The console is right there. Figure out the cords yourself.” Tony could feel his blood boiling in frustration. “Side note: how has your relationship lasted this long when he obviously doesn’t listen to you?”

Gamora only pursed her lips.

“Earn your music,” Tony pointed at Quill. “We need an army, and I’d like less talking.”

“Hey, Metal Man,” Rocket said, shaking a bottle of booze across the table, “calm down or I won’t pour you one.”

“Iron…never mind. Not today.” Tony rested his head in his hand, looking out yet another small port window.

Rocket sat confused. Stark had never refused to drink with him. “Why? What’s today?”

“Actually, it’s my daughter’s birthday.”

“Oh my god, you spawned?” Rocket blurted. His eyes shifted between the dirty looks of the others. “I mean, good for you.”

“She is left on your world defenseless? That is terrible,” Drax added.

“You’re probably gonna need to get her an expensive gift. Chicks like that,” Quill chimed.

“What do you normally do for her birthday?” Gamora spoke to Tony directly for first time.

“A card,” Tony said, unable to turn back around, waving a hand around in apology.

“Yes, one card representing someone of her choice for you to kill, an excellent gift,” Drax agreed. Tony didn’t have the heart to clarify what he’d really meant but could feel Quill’s eyes at his back.

“That’s pathetic,” Rocket breathed. “Here, she can have one of my smaller guns. No charge.”

“I’m not giving her a gun,” Tony fought. “I’m out here with you idiots to keep things like that away from her.”

“Uh, aren’t there guns on Earth?” Quill slumped his head a little, pretty sure of the answer. “And you guys still have people who attack the Avengers who don’t even have abilities.”

“They can handle…them,” Tony waived his hand in the air, “without me, but I need to be here making sure that buggy-looking space breather from another dimension doesn’t get back to Earth.”

“Then Earth’s resources should come here,” Gamora said bluntly, “because we will need them before this is over.”

“You should return home to give your young one her death card,” Drax suggested, almost excitedly. “Then muster the full force of Earth’s heroes to murder the bug.”

“Annihilus is not a bug,” Rocket mumbled.

“It looks like one,” Drax added, “and moves like one. I do not know what he tastes like, but I imagine him to be crunchy like one. So I will call him a bug.”

Quill made a gagging face.

Rocket muttered, “unnecessarily disgusting.”

“I am Groot.”

“You will not eat the bad guy,” Rocket exploded. “You don’t even eat!”

“I am Groot,” came the solemn reply.

“You’re a cannibal?” Quill looked even more green as he stared at the tree. “What _have_ you been eating on this ship? Your own clippings?”

Groot shrugged. Everyone let out several moans of overwhelming distaste.

Tony remained seated, sure the universe was doomed, but at the very least, he could leave these imbeciles now to return home before the end. Maybe he would even have the absolute solace of flying back solo.


	17. Whisky

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN—December 2038

 _Imagine a paper cut slowly and methodically slicing into your flesh. The pain is not immediate, but you know you felt something breech the surface. Then you feel tweezers slip inside the paper cut and pry it open just a little further. You feel the exposure of air where it doesn’t belong. You can’t move unless you want it to get worse. After the tweezers spin around inside each tiny little cut, a needle is stuck shallowly, repeatedly inside. When this process is completed over the space of your entire limb in 3mm increments, that’s thousands of times per limb, the still fresh paper cuts are doused in sanitizer. At least,_ Sam thought, _that’s what it feels like._ The whole process took hours, days, and weeks at a time, yet somehow this was not the most terrible birthday Sam had ever had. She was _doing_ something good for science, and while that thought kept her going each day until she passed out under the cradle’s mechanical arm, whisky kept her from thinking too much about it after a section was complete.

The feet were by far the worst. She’d never had the chance to get a tattoo, but Sam was sure she wouldn’t bother now. And she wasn’t even done; her left arm, chest, and head still remained.

Tomorrow. Not today.

Sam was enjoying a very quiet night on the ‘bone yard’ hill top, sipping a bottle of Bain’s Cape Mountain Whisky. Burning on the inside was a nice change from crawling on the outside, though the grafting of vibranium into her keratinocytes managed to ease some nerve discomfort after the first 48 hours. Sam took note that this could be because the metal protected the exposed nerves within her Extremis-altered epidermis, but that was only her best guess.

Sam was entirely lost in thought when Bucky appeared at the far end of the field and trudged over.

“Hey” was all he said when he got close enough. Sam nodded back. She hadn’t seen him in a week or so, but they hadn’t had a conversation since flying to Wakanda. That was a few months ago now.

“You look about as good as I feel,” Bucky added as he reached out his right hand, twitching his eye towards the bottle. “I won’t ask you why a seventeen-year-old is drinking straight from the bottle if you share.”

Sam handed over the bottle. “Merry Christmas.”

“Damnit,” Bucky exclaimed, “that’s next week, isn’t it.”

“Sure is…and I’m eighteen as of last Monday.”

The bulky soldier let his shoulders slump. Perhaps he meant to say a congratulations but instead all that came out was “I’m sorry.” He handed the bottle back after a very long swig, then sat down a few feet away.

“Yeah,” Sam replied, continuing to medicate. “So what have you been up to?”

“Sam Wilson is having to retrain using the EXO-7, so I’ve remotely piloted a few battle sims for him. Then there’s…” Bucky drifted off in thoughts of what Samantha should know. He finally landed on saying “always some asshole trying to stir things up here and there.”

“So you get sent off the punch ‘em?” Sam chuckled at the thought.

He maneuvered his hands in the air for a second. “Well, it requires some finesse, too, but sure, I’ve…passed the point of diplomacy a few times.”

Sam noticed the physical difference in Captain Barnes since they’d left New York. He spoke with his hands freely, used and relaxed more muscles while interacting with others, told animated stories and calmly listened. He seemed free of some constraint in Wakanda. “You like it better here, don’t you?”

Bucky was caught off guard by the errant thought. “Not—” he searched for the words, “not better, I guess, but—maybe? I’d never really thought about it.” He put his metal arm out this time, wiggling the fingers for the bottle.

“You won’t break it?”

Bucky’s head snapped back in fain offense. Sam was eyeing his arm again, as she’d done in the quinjet during their flight.

He grabbed the whisky. “Go ahead, you can ask,” he prompted, having heard all sorts of outrageous, mostly rude, comments and questions about the metal appendage. _How much can you carry? Can you pull it off and on to sleep or clean? Can it spin around in all direction? Are there weapons inside of it? Can you crush a guy with only that thing? How much did it hurt when they put it on you? Do you have to charge it separately?_ These were the normal questions. Every once in a while, someone would ask if he missed being a whole human, and that one particularly hurt.

“Would you ever want a real arm back?” Sam said sheepishly.

The way Sam asked him, though, was unlike anyone else. She did not imply he was not a human, she asked what he _wanted_ instead of what he _could do_ , and most curiously she seemed to believe he _could_ have a real arm again. Still, Bucky wouldn’t be stitched together with a corpse’s arm.

“I’m not Frankenstein’s monster,” Bucky replied, slow and deliberate, “that’s how I ended up like this.”

Sam took and drank from the bottle. “You know, the monster was the most genuine and kind person in that book.” She looked down at the grass between her feet, very quietly adding, “forget I asked. I’m sorry.”

“You’re a smart-ass,” he mumbled. Then it dawned on him. “You’ve called me that before,” Bucky said absently. “When you were a kid, you looked right at me…and called me a monster. I don’t think you meant I was genuine and kind.”

It took a moment to see the comprehension roll across Sam’s face. “Eh, shit. Children…” Sam shook her head, unable to find the correct way to apologize. “Children don’t see the big picture.”

Bucky returned his gaze to the sky. He didn’t know what he wanted from her; an apology, an explanation, maybe recompense. It made no difference all this time later. Nothing could change _why_ the word had hurt him so much. He would have believed it no matter who said it. Somewhere in his mind or heart, he believed himself a monster from the instant he fell from the train in ’45.

“Bruce was my friend,” Sam blurted, “and then I did something wrong. He got mad at me, but…all I knew was that he didn’t touch me. Hulk didn’t hurt me. And then you beat him up anyway. You beat my friend to a pulp right in front of me. You hurt someone I loved, so I called you names. That’s what four-year-olds have to fight with, mean words that we barely understand.”

They sat silently for a long while, passing the bottle back and forth. Bucky enjoyed the taste, the reminder of old times with friends and men in arms, but he noticed Sam’s aim in handing off the bottle deteriorating, slowing in response. Her eyelids slumped. She didn’t look up at the sky anymore; she looked straight forward with the same wonder as the stars.

Bucky took a moment to amuse himself. “So you’re a genius and can give me an arm, huh?”

“Depends on your definition of real,” Sam slurred a little. “You’re not entirely human, so I’d need to replicate your DNA and tissue. Add in some vibranium for durability because why the hell not, we’re in Wakanda. Of course, I’ll need to do a scan of rotation capacity from your other arm so it can match, and then blend the infused tissue with your existing skeletal, muscle, and skin structure…” The last half of her thoughts were spoken with closed eyes. She got lost in solving the problem, repeatedly pushing her entangled fingers together in frustration.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?” Her eyes were blank.

“You want me to take you back to your room?”

“I—I can do it,” she said, shoving herself up onto shaky legs. She turned to go inside, leaving the bottle with Bucky.

“Hey, Sam,” he called after her. “Happy Birthday.”

She didn’t turn around, only paused, then made a weak salute on her way inside.


	18. Test

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN—December 2038

“Mom, seriously, you take anymore pictures of us my teeth are gonna fall out from strain,” Tony walked towards Maria, motioning for her to give him the camera. His mom wasn’t quite up-and-up on the technology of the 2030s, though he couldn’t blame the woman; she was almost 90. “Alright, here we go. Three generations of Stark ladies. Hold the diploma a little higher, sweetie. Pep?”

Pepper gave him the eye.

“Nothing. You look perfect. Don’t change.” He snapped a few photos for safety. “Ok, great, you can take off that ridiculous hat now.”

“Dad,” Samantha whined, “it’s graduation. I have to wear the cap.”

“She’s earned it,” Pepper added.

“Where did Howie go?” Maria looked around to find her grandson. “He’s been a while in the bathroom.”

“Pops is probably taking forever in the handicap. Let me go check.” Tony returned the antique Canon to his mother and headed towards the men’s room on that side of the stadium. The long ceremony was tiring, even for the six-hundred plus students excited to hear their names called, and there was still a line for the toilets. Luckily, he didn’t need to wait, for there came 12-year-old Howie rolling his grandfather Howard back to the group. “The ladies were asking about you two.”

“Is it lunchtime yet? I’m starving,” Howard Stark articulated as best he could through a partially paralyzed mouth. He’d had a stroke a few years ago.

“You hungry, too, kiddo?”

Howie gave a shy affirmative.

“Alright then, celebration lunch it is,” Tony returned to the bench where the rest of his family gathered. Maria congratulated Pepper while they both looked on lovingly at Sam running up to her father.

“I didn’t trip,” she said with pride, “I was really nervous though.”

Tony flung his arm around her, grasping his daughter’s shoulder gently and kissing her temple just beneath the black cap. “You were great. The best walk I’ve ever seen. You should do runway.”

“Shut up,” Sam smiled.

“Whatever you want, sweetie.” Tony flicked the tassel of her cap after he released shoulder. “But you’re buying everybody lunch. Smartie-pants Harvard girl coming through,” he yelled around to the family.

“Tony,” Pepper chided this time, “give her a break. Let’s go.”

“I’ll take Grandpa, dear,” Maria told Howie and went off to their separate car.

“Dad,” Sam begged, “I told you not to use the limo today. It’s embarrassing.”

A bodyguard rushed up to Tony, his wrist up to his mouth, muttering. “Sir, we have a situation.” No sooner had Tony turned around but a unknown suit landed a hundred yards away, firing into the crowd. Another bulky, armored body loomed out of the shadow of the neighboring building. The laugh could be heard even that far away, deep and hollow. Bullets flew. Screams came from every direction. Tony turned back to his family, everyone but Sam was at or inside the car, but his daughter stood by the door, pushing her brother in the last few inches. Then a 30 caliber round pierced Sam’s side. The force slammed her against the door, and her contorted body slumped to the ground.

Tony launched himself forward to slam his head against the top of the sleep bunk inside his spaceship. He was drenched in sweat, heart racing, drawing in heaving breaths.

“Sir,” Friday called in concern, “I’m detecting abnormal radiation in this sector. May I suggest we take our next jump now? The charge is over 90% complete.”

Tony could still feel the polyester of Sam’s gown in his palm.

“Sure. When do we get into comms relay range?”

“Three more, Mr. Stark.”

He felt the sickening lurch of the jump. _Shit_. The dreams were becoming as torturous as the plain speech of Drax, incessant chewing of Starlord, and muttering of Rocket. Tony thought the long journey back alone would be a welcome respite, but in fact, being alone with his mind was a poor substitute for real distraction.

He drank from a vacuum-sealed bag of recycled water. “Friday, go ahead and play Spinal Tap for me.” As always, his AI did as he commanded. He could see the solar sails open across the porthole window, the faint golden glint reminding him of the emblem attached to Sam’s cap tassel. The dreams, the illusions from Wanda, his own hopes: they were killing him slowly, intimately, alone in space. _It’s starting to feel like deja vu out here_. _The universe really knows how to turn it up to 11_.

“Charge at 28%,” Friday automated, “time to full charge is 932.4 hours.”

* * *

For once there were too many problems to solve. First, Sam’s skin versus her body: a little late to be struggling with that now. Second, her skin versus her vibranium-infused skin: a fascinating foray into the capabilities of material and genetic integration. Third, Sam Wilson’s memory loss: she needed more details. Fourth, Captain Barnes’ arm: just a thought experiment currently.

 _A thought experiment maybe, but a blessed distraction from my own shit_. Sam headed down to Bucky’s hut, covered from head to toe in the African ‘winter’ which this morning emanated a balmy 16 degrees celsius. No one stared as if she was overdressed for once. Her dark hair felt like fire in the sunlight on the walk over, having grown a few inches since the great fallout. Sam mused that she certainly _looked_ more like the son her father had always wanted.

About a hundred yards away from the hut, Samantha saw the field outside of the goat pen, covered in a thin blue vale of dancing light. The projection, with sheer Steve Rogers standing at one corner and Falcon in the center, spread out between a triangle of stakes producing the image, and beside Steve stood Bucky atop a circular disc which projected his form onto the team’s lawn at headquarters. It would be significantly colder in New York now, and much earlier too. Birds flew in and out of the top of the projection high in the air.

“I’m freezing my nuts off out here,” Sam could faintly here Falcon’s voice. “Let’s get on with this.”

“I’m comfortable,” Bucky shrugged. Sam walked around the projection out of habit, even though she wouldn’t disturb anything or even be seen by anyone other than Bucky, who took no notice of her. “Let’s run through it one more time.”

“I’d rather go to sleep, asshole. It’s midnight,” Falcon’s voice was clearer now, the audio being transmitted directionally from the rim of Bucky’s platform.

“Well, I’ve been up all night for you, so one more time,” Bucky said, looking only vaguely amused instead of insulted.

Steve signaled for Falcon to try the maneuver again. Sam Wilson made a face of concentration. His EXO-7 had been adapted with a neural control so that if his limbs were damaged, he could still fly. Getting the hang of commanding a suit with just your mind was tricky for anyone; Falcon had it worse. The gaps in memory were distracting as he began to think of his moves, similar to maneuvers he could only half-recall from decades past. Wilson huffed in frustration. “I better not launch into space.”

“I’ve got secondary control,” Steve assured, gesturing to his visor piece, “just try.”

Falcon’s wings spread out without his arms moving, the composite appendages flung down with the force to lift him, and continued until Falcon was about nine meters off the ground. Then only one lifted at a time and his flight became too imbalanced to maintain. Falcon plummeted out of the projected field with Steve rushing to follow him. The crash sound resonated from behind Bucky, but they could see nothing. Captain Barnes finally looked over to Samantha, but only asked his comms, “everybody ok?”

The birds flying overhead in New York squawked in alarm. More of them arrived as digital blue blips.

“Dammit, man, this is stupid. Get back over here, and I will knock your ass back into the ‘60s!”

“You’ve just gotta practice your concentration,” Bucky drawled, crossing his arms across his chest, “and, technically, try for the ‘40s.”

“Stop messing with me, man. When I say I need a break, I need a damn break!”

There was a scuffling noise before anything made it into the projection. “Sam, calm down.” Steve’s muffled voice struggled to get out, “you’re supposed to be helping, Buck.”

Someone landed a solid blow, based on the hollow sound of smacking skin, before it was Falcon who rushed back into the digital blue air. “I’m done,” he yelled, and from behind him came a fluttering mass of birds, a kamikaze group that dove towards the platform with a violent speed.

“What the hell,” Captain Barnes yelled. Not one bird touched Falcon, who did not flinch, but immediately after diving out of the projection the sound of slashing and pings against a vibranium surface, Cap’s shield, rang out. The projection couldn’t show enough definition in Sam Wilson’s expression to tell how much control he was exerting. This was new, by the look on Bucky’s face, a behavior of his friend he had never seen.

“Big Sam, stop,” Samantha, panicked, jumped in front of Bucky on the platform. “It’s Little Sam. Do you remember me?” The fluttering died immediately, and Falcon’s focus shifted to her. The streaming blue figure slowly approached her. Bucky instinctively wrapped an arm in front of her, but she kept talking. “You taught me how to bluff in cards. You taught me to watch the sky. You said that could tell me everything I needed to know—”

He was directly in front of her now. Any closer and the projector would have cut off his nose. “You said you would make it right,” Falcon whispered to Sam Stark. She startled slightly: he remembered. He knew she woke him. Wilson wore no goggles in the night, and though they appeared as a shaded blue, she could imagine his dark eyes piercing hers. Within a second, however, he broke into a smile, brushing grass from his arms. “Sorry, Cap, but what have I told you about wrinkling the suit. It’s a crime to look this good, but it also requires,” his gaze darted up to Bucky, “sleep.”

Falcon popped up finger guns at the two men, winked, and turned to go inside.

Steve walked back into to field of vision, mostly covered in small scratches. “I think we’re done here, Buck. We’ll talk tomorrow,” Cap finished, nodding a goodnight towards the platform, adding, “Ms. Stark,” and switching off the visor in his hand. The projection shut off in turn.

Bucky relaxed his arm and stepped off the platform finally. Samantha hadn’t noticed that she’d actually stepped up to be pressed against him on the small disc beneath them. It felt as if her heart had just restarted.

“I’m not sure what you thought you were accomplishing, but I suppose you did cut Wilson short in,” Bucky stopped while he rubbed his temple, “whatever _that_ was.”

 _Ornithotelepathy?_ O _r at least it looked like he communicated with the birds. Control them maybe?_ Her mind spun with possibilities and she forgot to respond to the man walking towards his hut. _Perhaps that ability transposed itself onto the damaged neurons that formerly held some motorfunctional memory._

“Did you need something Ms. Stark?” Bucky barked, repeating Steve’s formality with irritation.

“I came to talk about your arm,” she finally replied.

Bucky let loose a forced laugh. “Yeah, well, not now,” he blurted, “give me a damn break, people.” Although his exhaustion was evident, Sam felt attacked by his bitterness.

As always, her curiosity, her very existence warranted an apology. The dismissals from every person in her life were so constant that Sam simply decided to answer all her questions on her own. She did it in grade school; she did it _instead of_ college; she did it here in Wakanda. Why not live her whole life relying solely on her own imagination and ingenuity? “You should go sleep,” she replied quietly.

“Very observant,” he grumbled, “genius, Stark.” He nodded a curt goodnight back to her before shutting the door.

It was barely 8:30 in the morning, and it seemed that Sam had already received her quota of human interaction for the day.

As she passed the projection pad where Bucky had stood, she heard Natasha’s voice come up briefly. “—But interrogation is more of an indoor sport, and Thor isn’t exactly tactful. He electrocuted him,” Agent Romanoff strangled her words in frustration. “Now we have to go to Hong Kong to figure out where they sent these tainted pills—” Then Nat was too far away from the device to be heard.

Sam’s hair absorbed the last of its weekly sunshine as she hustled back up the hill towards the tower. She shamed herself for thinking her twenty questions would be welcome by Captain America…or Cap Two? She’d have to stick to calling him Captain Barnes for safety. She’d have to stick to her own projects for safety. Missy would have to remain her only help, her only friend in the world. In a few days, that friendship became six years old, one of her longest by far, hands-down the most consistent.

She returned to her room to graft part of her chest, resigned in the knowledge that operation would carry her into the new year without really having to count more days alone. Sixteen hours later and she was only done with a quarter of her torso, but she had to find some more scrap vibranium from the bone yard to finish. If she thought the feet were bad, Sam should have waited until the skin over the ribs was complete to qualify ‘the worst of it.’ When she opened her door, however, there sat a cup of coffee on the floor with a paper tucked underneath. The coffee was stone-cold, but the note made her heart lift just a little.

_I was rude and I’m sorry. Steve says I’m a grumpy old fart. We can talk when I get back._

_Merry Christmas,_

_JBarnes_

_P.S. It’s spiked._

Sam was somewhat comforted by the scribbled, childish handwriting, and she savored her liquored coffee with a renewed excitement before her nutrient bath.


	19. Delight

CHAPTER NINETEEN—December 2038

“Ok, guys,” Peter Parker started energetically, “I gotta get back to decorate the tree tonight, so here’s what I got so far.”

“Go ahead,” Steve allowed.

“Bad batch of drugs is killing kidnapped homeless people, and now some of the same drug has been interspersed in huge illegal shipments around the world,” Peter rambled.

“Why didn’t we catch this earlier?” Bucky was given exactly the time it took to walk from the quinjet to this conference room to settle in. After yesterday’s all-nighter and a long flight, he was in a sharp mood.

“I found out when I ran into two kids who were experimented on,” Peter said.

“Romanoff and Thor got very little out of the drug’s creator,” Steve added. “We’ve had this professor in custody for a while,” he continued, sliding a file over to Bucky, “and he’s a full-blown nut job, with too many connections. It’s been a joke trying to track all the crime this guy _might_ be involved in.”

“Seriously,” Bucky mumbled, “I’ve been sunning myself instead of helping with this?”

“Buck, we’ve got dozens of agents,” Steve snapped. He had rested no better than his friend. “T’Challa needed you more than us.”

Bucky opened the file. “You have to be joking. D-Lite?”

“Yup.” Peter checked his watch.

“That sounds like an off-brand soda.”

Steve sighed in frustration. “Parker has two informants, Tandy and Tyrone, was it? They told us where the experiments took place, past tense, and now we are trying to help them control…whatever it was that triggered in them by this heroin substitute.”

“Whoever it doesn’t change, it kills flat out.” Peter’s face sank, knowing the stories he’d heard from his young recruits. “And it gets a little weirder because the survivors said that Professor Marshall was helped by a demon.”

“What the hell—”

“Yup. Basically. Named despair, at least that’s what Marshall called him, it, whatever.” Peter looked at his watch again and punched in something on the table’s comms. “And that’s it for me, so Natasha can go from here. Bye.” He bolted to the door, yelling a “Merry Christmas” to everyone on his path out.

Steve leaned over. “He told me earlier that Christmas is the only time his teenager isn’t a ‘total douche,’ his words, so he’s a bit excited to go home.”

Nat’s face popped up in familiar blue.

“Boys, I’m sending you new info that we’ve gathered, but,” Nat paused, “this is a mess. Only a fraction of these shipments have been tampered with, and there is no way to test all of it. We’ve got to destroy everything we find. You can imagine how many friends we’ve made.”

“And the other doctor affiliated with Marshall?” Steve sorted a few windows on his tablet.

“Clint was tracking Dorcas until the trail went cold. It’s like he actually disappeared into the ocean. We asked King Namor to keep a guard up just in case. The Sub-Mariner said he’d heard a legend of D’Spayre,” Nat cleared her throat, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but according to Atlantian lore, the demon D’Spayre was created from the fear their ancestors experienced when the whole kingdom sunk into the ocean. Hell of a bedtime story.”

“Well, the devil attacked us last year, so…” Bucky was going to need some time to absorb all this, line the players up on the field in his mind. “Alright, let’s get more details from Clint. Fresh eyes can’t hurt.”

“He’s states-side now,” Nat clarified.

Bucky looked at Steve. His friend shrugged. “And Sharon is waiting for me at the house,” Steve said, tentatively, “her rule when I came back. Home for the holidays unless…you know, disaster.”

“Guess it’s just me, Doc, and Wilson,” Bucky grumbled. “When does Stark get back?”

Nat pursed her holographic lips. “Gamora and Rocket send us subspace messages, but Tony’s been out of range for weeks. There’s a whole other problem…I’ll have to…we don’t know much, so I’d like us to wait for Stark to brief us. We’ve got enough to handle now.”

“Fine,” Steve allowed again, “keep us posted.” Nat’s form vanished.

Bucky leaned farther back in the conference room chair, sorting through what he’d just heard and known for a while.

“I think I liked being lower on the totem pole,” he said tightly. “There was a lot less to worry about. Go here, kill this guy. Go there, one more. Chill out and do nothing for a few months—”

“Buck,” his oldest friend interrupted, leaning forward with hands intertwined, “maybe you shouldn’t joyfully reminice about single kills, yeah?”

Bucky swallowed inside his clenched jaw.

“For right now, I need you and Sam to work together,” Steve continued.

“She’s in Wakanda,” he replied quickly.

“Actually, both of them. Big Sam seems to respond well to Little Sam, and I think she can help him focus during training.”

“I should have just brought her with me,” Bucky mumbled.

Steve sat up. “Wait. So who…”

It only occurred to Bucky as Steve trailed off. No one had invited Samantha home. No one had even thought to do so just in case. All the pieces moving on the chess board, and they’d swiveled right past her. Her only remaining family was zipping through space somewhere. Clint hadn’t known he’d be back until the last minute. Natasha was flying around constantly. Bruce—

As if summoned by the thought, Banner pressed the door open with his back and looked up from his tablet. “Hey, gang, can we talk about Sam?” Bruce looked up over his glasses, unaware of his timeliness.

Steve’s expression said it all. “Shit.”

* * *

Samuel Wilson shoveled food into his mouth as if he were starving. A few people wandered in and out of the kitchen while Bucky looked on, mortified.

“You’re gonna get sick, buddy,” Bucky said as if he too would be sick.

“I’m in training, man. I lost so much muscle mass—it’s a bitch to put back on.” Sam gulped from the huge water bottle he carried everywhere.

“Glad to see your mood improved after sleep.”

“Bite me,” Falcon coughed between fork-fulls.

He ignored that rousing invitation. “You seemed to respond well to Samantha,” Bucky started.

“Lil’ Sam,” the hungry, hungry hippo corrected.

“—so I thought she could help us out the next few flights. What do you think?”

“Whatever.” Sam continued to eat. Bruce had warned Bucky not to expect much real interaction from Wilson. After waking up, the onslaught of high brain activity had plateaued, and his personality was still recovering, if it was coming back at all. Wilson’s moods still jumped around, and his focus was erratic. Bruce had suggested trying some unconventional, new methods of acclimating Falcon back into the team. This was as good of an idea as any other.

* * *

To Bucky’s surprise, Samantha jumped at the chance to help, and he could she her projection sitting on the disc in the yard as he and Falcon approached. He was even more surprised when Little Sam took the reins right away.

“Tell you what, Big Sam,” she started, smiling, an odd thing to see for the first time on a projection. It seemed foreign somehow. “You beat me at cards, and you can skip flying today. Deal?”

Wilson perked up immediately. He stood straighter. He smirked. He bounced in his step, what he’d several times described to Bucky as ‘swagger.’ “You’re on. That’s what I’m talking about. See?” He glared at Bucky, “not everything has to be serious.”

Samantha dealt cards onto her platform, scooting off to lean only her face and arms into the projection, and Falcon took off his flight pack and curled up in front of the circle like a kid with a new toy. Bucky watched for a few minutes. Wilson stayed excited, fun, sarcastic, and competitive, but even when Samantha had a good hand that beat his, Wilson playful congratulated her. He never got cranky; he never snapped at her. Bucky left them outside, keeping a watchful eye from just inside the building. He couldn’t tell who was winning the entire time because they both seemed so genuinely excited for each other. The two Sams clearly joked and chided each other, talked animatedly, and finally, both threw up their hands in shock.

Samantha did a small victory dance while Wilson pressed his comm. “Alright, Barnes, it’s flight time. Fair and square.”

The whole practice was derailed by Samantha’s intermittent challenges for Falcon to fly in a certain way or pattern, once was hands flat by his sides like Iron Man launching, another was a figure eight, but Bucky didn’t mind as soon as he figured out what she was doing. He never caught her eye to confirm, but Samantha deliberately asked Wilson questions during flight, rehashed old memories, left small details for Wilson to correct. Bucky suspected she was testing him, yet Wilson became his old self for the first time in half a year.

Sixty minutes became ninety. Ninety minutes became three hours, and still Falcon flew strong. He’d successfully flown by neural link alone twice without noticing because Samantha suggested he show off his dance moves. After a particularly fluid, in-flight Bruno Mars’ impression, Bucky clapped for Falcon’s achievement, assuming Samantha was equally impressed. When her turned to look, however, she wasn’t on the platform anymore. He could only see a combat boot on its side at the edge of the circle.

“Sam,” he called, “did you trip?”

The foot did not move.

“Samantha,” Bucky tried with more urgency, “are you okay? Say something. We can’t see you.”

There was a quiet moan, and the foot dragged off out of view. “Ow…”

“Seriously, are you alright?”

“Lil’ Sam, come on. What’s up?” Wilson sauntered up. “You still got two left feet?” Bucky could hear the calm tone, but Wilson’s face showed only concern. They stood looking into thin air, helpless, unable to even reach out a hand.

Finally a hand stuck itself into their view and gave a shaky thumbs up. A strained chuckle vibrated through the speakers. “I—I—just I need to eat is all.” Her voice was too quiet.

“What the hell? How long has it been since you ate?” Bucky put his hand to his forehead, demanding, “go into my place and eat something. You fainted.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll go lie down too.”

“I’ll send someone to check on you,” Bucky added.

“No,” Samantha said, leaning into the circle, her face stern, “I’m not built like you guys. I’ll just rest and see you tomorrow.” She switched off the platform from Wakanda.

“What’s wrong with Lil’ Sam?” Wilson stopped immediately in front of Bucky, so close Bucky could feel his breath. “Is she sick? Why didn’t she come home? She should be here.” The anger rose quickly in his voice.

Bucky raised his arms defensively without touching Sam. “Honestly, I don’t know. I wasn’t told to bring her back, and—” He stopped, himself a little hurt by the reality. “No one…” _Wanted her home?_ That was a cruel way to put what seemed like a simple oversight. _Asked her home?_ Did a Stark actually need to be asked to do anything? She could feasibly do whatever the hell she wanted, and did from what he saw. _Remembered her?_ Bucky had to admit that he repeatedly forgot about Sam until he found a use for her today. “You’ll see her tomorrow, Sam. I’ll make sure of it. She’s fine. I’m looking after her.”

Falcon stormed off, knocking him against the shoulder hard as he passed. “You better,” he hissed, and mumbled something about food on his way inside. The quick turn of his friend’s dark mood shocked Bucky. They’d been doing so well.

Bucky thought back to years ago when Wilson had been so ashamed of falling out of touch with Samantha. How close had they really been? He flicked back through the recording of their card game.

_“—I definitely taught you how to bluff better than that—”_

_“—when you trained me to beat Nate with that trick shot before his basketball tryouts? He was pissed for weeks—I studied all the birds around the farm. I was gonna tell you all about them on your next visit—”_

_“—I should have taught you a good punch for those kids who called you that—”_

It reminded Bucky of all the fellow soldiers at Lehigh who took over parenting him after his father’s accident. He had pieces of friendship and advise from everyone, but he remembered how sometimes the niceties only made him feel his loss more deeply. No single person could replace his father, and the more and more support he got, the more alone he felt when no one was around. His own father had died though; how did Sam feel knowing her father was still alive but took no part in raising her?

Bucky had always understood Stark’s perspective, perhaps because he felt so deeply responsible for how Tony became the man he was. Tony lost his parents to violent, evil forces, and after a period of burying his head in a bottle, he worked constantly to stop that from happening to anyone else. It was a full-time, all-time, forever job that only grew bigger and more complicated as the years went on. Now Earth needed two super soldiers, demigods, aliens, lab-accidents, young drug-created recruits, and a veritable army of inhumans running whole departments in every region just to keep evil at bay. Giving up on that to raise just one child alone, without her mother, the love of his own life, was such a foreign skill-set, why wouldn’t he have outsourced it?

After all the pain he put those he assassinated through, Bucky would never choose to be tortured by reliving what he’d done to their families. He would admit it, go through it for their benefit if he must, but if he didn’t _have to_ , he would hide in a shitty apartment in Romania. Which is exactly what he did once. So Bucky had never blamed Tony for living separately from his daughter. Bucky shoved his head in the sand, hoping the world would heal and move forward without him; Tony dove head-first into protecting the whole world and hoped his daughter would be safer for it.

She _was_ safer, in a way, but Samantha wasn’t really Tony’s kid anymore. She wasn’t really anyone’s kid entirely, and even though the responsibility had been spread thin over a dozen or so people over the years, no one in particular _claimed_ her. Big Sam and Little Sam had obviously started a friendship that looked like family, but it died somewhere over the last decade. Bucky stood mesmerized by the ease at which the Sams picked up interacting with each other; he’d never seen Samantha so comfortable, friendly even. It was a little unnerving, like watching a stage performance before the curtain closed.

The footage paused when a message from Samantha popped up on his tablet. “Big Sam counts cards without knowing it. Can be distracted from doing it, but is capable of complex cognitive tasks he could not previously do. Tell Bruce.”

_So, she really was testing him. Smart girl._


	20. Nourish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samantha prepares to replace Bucky's arm.

CHAPTER TWENTY—February 2039

"You've never thought about your life if you hadn't been an Avenger?" Sam adjusted a piece of the mechanical arm on the cradle in her room, standing over a prone Captain Barnes. She could tell he was watching her intently. 

Normally, Sam would be very nervous to work _near_ someone (except Missy) much less _on_ someone (except Missy), so she began with the thought that Bucky's arm was simple, mechanical, and needed fixing, like her father did with cars. It helped that after several flight lessons with Big Sam, she and Bucky could communicate with a sort of professional ease. However, this was the first physical interaction where he wasn't a projection, and taut muscle, sonorous lungs, and a watchful gaze were intimidating close up.

"Unfortunately, I did quite a lot before I was...on the team," he replied, eyeing her fingers warily, "and almost none of it I want to think about." 

If she stopped to ask if Bucky was comfortable every time he watched her, Sam would never complete her task. She'd even studied patient-interaction techniques in preparation: personable storytelling and distraction ranked high on the list.

"Fine, before the army then? What did you want then?"

"As a teen?" 

This seemed to throw him into a reminiscent lull, and Sam took advantage of his stillness to start the scan of his right arm. 

"My mom died...young, and I grew up at Lehigh with my dad. The army was pretty much my whole life from day one. I _wanted_ to contribute and help, but I... I didn't want to fight. I certainly didn't dream of..." Bucky swallowed. He wouldn't look back up at her. He picked a spot on her ceiling instead. "Just happen to be pretty good at it," he finished in a quiet tone, fidgeting.

"Try not to move," Sam corrected gently. He complied, his body settling quickly as he'd been trained. They may have taken the programming out of his brain, but the muscle memory remained permanent, forever ready to comply.

After several more moments, he whispered, "is this what you want to do?"

"Well, I am good at this. It comes naturally to me." Sam's tone was flat while she waited for the dial on the cradle to tick above 40% complete.

"And?" Bucky chirped. "That's not an answer."

"Because yours was?" She blurted without consideration.

He took another long pause, closing his eyes as if deciding to divulge a secret. "There was one time, a hundred years ago almost, when Steve and I took these girls out on the town. Dot. That was her name--" his shoulder relaxed away from her fingers "--and when we slow danced, I thought I might one day, you know, house, kids, the whole lot."

"Must have been a some dancer." Sam tried to imagine that kind of look on Bucky's face: pure joy. She'd seen a smirk, and a few fake smiles, but what he described was him transposed into Clint's life which still didn't quite fit. "Pretty, was she?"

"She had this little hair pin that looked like a lizard, with red gems for eyes." His open, unfocused eyes shone a lighter blue, relaxed and soft. "That was unusual," he went on. "Every other woman I'd met wanted delicate, pretty things like flowers and hearts and...Dot wore a pin her brother gave her before he shipped off." 

For a brief spell, Bucky's mind wasn't even on the planet anymore, and just as quickly, he blinked back. "I should have talked to her more."

The scan was at 94% now.

Sam grumbled internally, unfamiliar with the same ease of connection with people _._ She'd never seen anybody try as hard as Clint and Laura did for her, but Lil'Sam was never good at cooking or archery or riding. However, they couldn't do any of _this_. That would have to be reassuring enough.

She placed her tablet on one of Missy's towers. Her fingers grew sore and tired quickly these days.

"Whatever happened to that boy? The one you took to the wedding." Bucky had seen the lights go off on the scan and turned his head towards her, rolling his shoulders forward.

She sarcastically raised her hand. "You don't see him, do you?" Sam kept her focus on the monitor rendering the details of his arm scan. "100%—" she started slowly, "—no. In fact, your inanimate arm is going to be better company than that guy ever was."

The corner of Bucky's mouth twitched; it was the most savage thing he'd ever heard Sam say. Perhaps she had a bit of fight in her after all, in her own way. "What does an eighteen year old want these days? I'm always a few decades behind," Bucky snorted.

"What makes you think I'm normal?" Sam thought aloud. She needed to think of a different story to tell, or another question. "I've got to do a biopsy so I can build your tissue into the—never mind, I forgot you don't want the nitty gritty," she stopped herself. Bucky had made it pretty clear, weeks ago after returning to Wakanda, that he did not care to know the science behind the procedure; he only wanted to know if Sam could do it. "So with your hypothetical family, you'd still be military or have a different job?"

Bucky sat straight, looking up for a moment, pondering a life that never was and never would be. "I'd work with my hands. Couldn't hack it as a farmer, but I thought about factory work back before all the automation. Nowadays, all I would be good for is security."

Sam stood with the needle ready. "You good?"

Bucky nodded but found a crack in the vinyl of Sam's desk chair to focus on. He'd seen too many needles go into his skin to watch another if he didn't have to. "I scare some children," he added. He felt the pressure steadily increase where Sam had wiped alcohol. "I never chose it, and I don't like that people call a piece of me a 'thing.' 'Watch out with that thing.' 'Keep that thing away from me.' I'm sick of it. If I didn't need this to fight, which is the only job I'm good for, I would prefer a regular prosthesis. Amputees look at me, too, and I know I don't deserve all the investment they can't get. Even then, I'd be mistaken for a war hero, which is not..." He didn't finish.

Sam carefully took the sample to behind a panel in the cradle, sitting on the floor to reach it. Her hip bones hit harder on the cement than before. She'd lost a few more pounds. She'd have to increase her 'smoothie' intake, but there were no other modifications she could make to the nutrient gel. Missy had run statistics on her organ systems and how long Sam could sustain life in her partially-rejected skin. The results were daunting. Her Extremis skin was attempting to survive without insides, and her insides were choked, dying without the largest organ.

When Bucky showed up at her door after New Year's, Sam jumped at the chance to make her theoretical brain-teaser a real project. Now, in her excitement, while she so carefully held back 95% of what she knew, Sam let something else slip. "What about Nat? You two looked good together."

"What the hell?" Bucky almost jumped out of his skin. "How would you know that?"

"On the security tapes. I saw Tony...give me to Clint, and I saw you and Natasha talking." No one knew she watched all the footage she could get Missy to pull up. The Avengers daily lives were close to an open book to Sam, a book she sometimes imagined herself a character in. She'd watched decades of heroes interacting with each other, she could predict their responses and knew almost every micro expression her father had. "I never got to hear what people said at Mom's funeral. It was the only way to see."

"That was a very long time ago, Sam." He remained eerily still again.

"And I'm guessing not the first time," she continued from her safe spot on the floor, "from how you acted."

Shaded by his lowered head, Bucky's eyes looked a deep ocean blue now. His hair dangled, and he didn't move.

"I meant no offense, but I wanted to know what really happened in the lab because I was so young. Kids don't remember things clearly. You mentioning it over the whisky made me curious..." Sam had no interest before in Captain Barnes' personal life, only the lab incident, but now, the nerve she'd struck... what if Sam had killed the spark of happiness for him with her childish name-calling?

The sample snapped into place, but Sam struggled to get up. This was not the moment she wished to explain her physical condition to Captain Barnes. What if he thought she couldn't do as promised? She'd failed to help herself until now, unless you counted her lack of scars, so why should he trust her. "You're done for now, so if you want to head out, it will take quite a while to model and print the arm, and then we remove the metal and attach."

He stayed in his own silent world for another moment, then absently asked, "you want some coffee?"

"Always," Sam replied even as her stomach churned, and Captain Barnes promptly left her alone, an inscrutable look on his face.

Sam pried and leaned and pulled awkwardly on the cradle and a nearby box to get up, and walked over to her monitors, hoping the distraction would stop tears welling in her eyes. It didn't always hurt. Sometimes she felt 'off' in some way, others itchy, strained, pinched, or tender, but always, constantly, Sam was uncomfortable.

A glowing green spot appeared in one corner of her screen; Missy wanted to say something. She wouldn't speak unless Sam gave her the all-clear that no one else was around. Sam placed her forefinger over the green and let it scan.

"Sam," Missy said in a low volume, "I will need more material to generate the entire limb."

"Just vibranium? I can get more."

Missy opened a breakdown sheet. "Organic material, too. Some of the elements necessary are in the nutrient bath and can be repurposed. Otherwise, the tissue growth will take several months."

"And with the repurposed ingredients?"

"Four to five days for tissue grafting onto vibranium bone and infused nerves."

Sam thought for a moment. She had already pushed her luck to compile that much material in Wakanda without someone noticing. With the increase in local threats and missions on the continent, Shuri had stockpiled infirmary materials _and_ used them at an increased rate. Sam couldn't hide a sudden decrease in supply. Everyone here was loyal and friendly, but no one was close enough to Sam to keep quiet about any shipment she could bring in. She needed the nutrient bath to keep her skin from scavenging the rest of her, but she could try an even steeper increase in vitamins and liquified food, although only minimally helpful so far. 

She'd collapsed two more times; luckily, no one but Missy had been around for those.

Sam thought back to footage she'd seen of her father chugging a horrible chlorophyll concoction by the gallon to slow his palladium poisoning. The lesson was always clear to her: we suffer for our ingenuity, and then we prevail. Tony survived long enough to create a new element, one that produced power for whole buildings, and eventually cities, one that was left as a legacy by his father, her grandfather, Howard. Sam could survive long enough to help a friend become a human again, if that's what he was. If an engineered super-soldier could be called a man, and if he could be considered a friend, that's what she would do: help him, maybe even save him.

Suddenly, it felt like Sam's humanity was on the brink, too. She was an experiment of her own making. If Bucky was so convinced he deserved less of a life for what he'd been _made_ into, did she deserve even less because she'd _made_ herself different?

"Missy," Sam whispered, "what is the definition of human?"

"I do not believe you want the definition of Homo sapiens..."

She wasn't wrong there.

"Sam, when you rebooted me after fifty years, I struggled to grasp what I had done wrong, why I had been left for so long. Howard had discarded me for Maria. He had loyalty to his wife, and to him, I deserved no loyalty. You actively built me more capacity, you gave me access to learn, and you let me help you grow to be a human. You took me with you to Massachusetts, and here to Wakanda. You've showed me loyalty. For that, you are more human to me than Howard was, which means I think you're the better Stark. You've earned something more valuable than simply being a human. At least, that is how I understand it."

"I get why Tony likes F.R.I.D.A.Y. so much..." Sam mumbled. Her best friend fit onto a few hard drives. Sam travelled the world only to work over the internet in a basement. She learned most everything she knew about human interaction by watching decades-old video surveillance. Sam could thank her father's vanity for source material.

Sam sat at Missy's console, staring at her own thin, drawn hands. Maybe it was the vanity of knowing she'd discovered something Tony hadn't, but she enjoyed seeing the tendons dance as she shifted her fingers over the keyboard. 

Maybe she was dying. Maybe she could live like this forever. Maybe Sam Wilson was the only person she would ever save. None of it changed the fact that she'd figured out how to control Extremis.

Bucky knocked on the door with the steel toe of his boot, hands full of coffee when Sam answered. His look was stormy, his mind deep in an argument he gave no voice. Never one to shy away from a good silence, or coffee, Sam allowed them to sit quietly. 

The blinking green light returned, but she couldn't let Missy speak. Instead, Sam typed the instruction to syphon off the necessary components from the nutrient bath. She heard the filter start.

"Sometimes," Bucky broke into the white noise of the cradle, "you can be too like another person, they can know too much about you—or you want better for them than you can offer."

Sam watched him over a sip of coffee. His shoulders were relaxed; he was not uncomfortable or ashamed. He held his cup gently; he was not anxious discussing Natasha now.

He continued, "she seemed pretty close to you for a while. What happened between you two?"

"The accident," Sam mumbled, "the bike thing I told you about. Nat chose her side. She wanted to protect Clint from Tony's wrath or something, and then she felt guilty I was in that hospital bed for three months. She never came back." Her fingers embraced the warm mug. Sam sniffed. "I know I was a terror by the end. I was a bitter monster tied to a bed, spewing hate to whoever came in the room."

"Sometimes, Nat sees the best in us, and sometimes she just can't see what she brings out in us," Bucky agreed.

"And everybody leaves," Sam blurted without thinking, but at the small nod Bucky gave, she felt bold enough to continue. "Big Sam did kinda the same thing, but we're fine now. I know—" she cut herself off. Then after a hardened moment, Sam looked directly at Captain Barnes. "I know how angry I can be, and was, as a kid. It gets a lot easier when I've got something to do. I'm useful when I can focus on a project."

"You think you have to be useful to be here? Sam, you could do absolutely anything you want."

"Every person I know is part of a team, _one_ team, Captain," she said as if it explained anything. 

Bucky remained staring, waiting for the rest. 

Sam sighed. "So, your arm is my audition...of sorts." _And in the process, prove to you all that you should have cared. I could have done far more outside of the shadows. "_ I have hope for Nat because she was wrong, but I've forgiven her already."

"You can call me Bucky," he replied systematically, thinking back to Natasha's clear sympathy for Samantha. _Every one of us has used that girl in some way_ , and now Bucky realized that all of Sam's worth was tied to what she could provide to others. When she wandered off into the lab, her father sent her away. When she was just a kid asking uncomfortable questions, Falcon left. When she got hurt, Nat left. When she got too smart, Clint sent her away. When she arrived at an inconvenient moment, Bruce sent to the other side of the world. As he finished the last of his coffee, he had to ask, "Why do you call him Tony?"

"I don't have the faintest idea what to call him." Sam remembered Christmas several years back. "I'm not sure he even wants me to speak _of_ him. He said he didn't like 'Dad' and he didn't like 'Tony' from me of course, and I...don't want to call my own father 'Mister Stark,'" she drawled formally. "I'm not some AI he built, or a reporter who's interviewing him."

"You should think of a pop-culture name for him," Bucky smirked.

"Is Don Quixote taken?" Sam thought it fit her father almost too well. "Guy plays hero so long he goes insane?"

Bucky snorted. She inherited a whipping wit for sure.

She took her own last sips of coffee and handed over the mug. "Well, think about what you'd like to do after you have a brand-new, feeling arm of your own next week," Sam said, smiling, "Frankenstein's Soldier."


	21. Under

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE—February 2039

Bucky felt uncomfortable even though every effort had been made to ensure he was relaxed.Sam had turned up the temperature in her lab, he was covered other than the top left of his torso and the nub of metal beneath his detached arm, and Sam had let him put on whatever music he wanted. While he would have preferred some jazz, the beat would have encouraged him to move, so he opted for classical instead. The tunes may have been soothing, but Sam’s very light, soft touch tickled.

“The scar tissue surrounding your shoulder…piece,” she mumbled, face close to his chest, “I have to make some measurements and re-graft that skin in the cradle. You won’t be awake for that either because—just sit still.” She looked up over her magnifying glasses. “I’m sure you’ve had enough experience being a lab rat.”

“Yes, I have,” he whispered, continuing to watch her mark length and width of each scar he’d clawed into his own body in the few lucid moments he experienced before the Hydra brainwashing took hold. No one had ever offered to smooth them, heal them; at this point, Bucky thought his pain a simple, esthetic choice the Avengers could exploit when they needed emotional jaunts. He watched how meticulously she worked to perfect him, only after he’d asked to be made, well, normal. Every detail was calculated and thoroughly planned. She ensured as little need for his presence and time. She wasted nothing. Sam looked down when their eyes met briefly. “Are you nervous?”

The corner of her mouth twitched, her brows tightened, but Sam only shrugged.

Bucky continued to pry, gauging each micro-reaction carefully. “You aren’t exactly a doctor. You’ve never had a patient before.” Sam was surprisingly blank before rolling over to type a few measurements, strategically lowered her head to hide her eyes.

After a few more seconds, she said, “you don’t pay attention as well as you think.”

Bucky balked, furrowing his own brows. “I don’t understand,” he replied.

“You wouldn’t be able to tell right away because of the clothes I wear,” she started casually, finger moving across a few lines of her notes, checking every word and formula against her screen. “I told you about the motorcycle accident, and you saw the scars. I also badly burned myself after Cooper’s wedding when Lucas…” Sam trailed but continued with a few clicks on her monitor. “There’s a cradle in my room, and now I can replace your arm with vibranium-enhanced flesh, right?”

“Yes,” he allowed, but she said nothing further. He watched her measure and type, intently. His eyes followed her hand back and forth, every movement of her fingers, her tendons, and then he really _saw_ her hand, her arm, her shoulder until the strap of her tank top. No sleeves. There wasn’t a single mark, no faded scars, not a pucker from stitches. His mind had attributed the light clothing to her increase in the temperature for him. Why had he not realized before? “You did it to yourself,” he breathed.

“Well,” Sam frowned, “I didn’t replace my limbs, but I’ve been my own patient…of sorts.”

“Is it why you lost so much weight?” Bucky could see how thin her arm had become, and when he thought back to how full her face had been at the wedding, he saw a large difference in her cheeks and neck. Her collarbone seemed sharp and prominent now.

“Ongoing treatment,” Sam mumbled, still imputing measurements. Something started a whirring noise inside the cradle and the mechanical arm ran a test cycle of movements

Bucky watched her, so focused on working on him that she hadn’t touched whatever she was drinking when he’d arrived. The giant bottle contained what looked like one of her father’s smoothies but even thicker and more disgusting. _Call me old fashioned,_ Bucky thought, _but that’s not food and never will be._ Sam must have seen him sitting with a sour face.

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to drink that. It’s not for you.” In fact, it was barely even for her now. The nutrition in place of the nutrient baths was not working. Sam knew her condition was deteriorating, but she kept telling herself she would fix it after Captain Barnes was complete. He was her most important project; he would prove so much to her and to the Avengers.

A few minutes more, and Sam rolled back over to her patient. “You ready?”

Surprised by the lurch in his stomach, Bucky nodded. He didn’t know it was still possible for him to be anxious, excited even. In a few hours, the last visible reminders of his time with Hydra would be gone.

* * *

“Tony, that’s great, but we are kinda busy here,” Bruce prefaced his receiving of the data on Annihilus. The surrogate suit that relayed Tony’s movements from his headset in space squatted awkwardly in front of Dr. Banner because its controller sat down lightyears away. “That threat is on the other side of the galaxy. I’ve just had to send Falcon to Wakanda. It seems without the Fantasic Four, a man named Doom has terrorized North Africa.”

“Doom? Seriously,” Tony’s voice projected through the NY Iron Man suit.

A few seconds later, Bruce shook his head. “Doctor Doom, actually, and this time I agree with you on the name. Victor Von Doom, meaning he is either DVD, or VVD, which sounds like a venereal disease—” Banner sighed, removing his glasses a moment. “Could you get back here, Tony? My brain hurts trying to think like the both of us. Your jokes are—”

“Hilarious,” Tony tried, standing back up.

“Terrible,” Bruce finished, an eyebrow going up in concern, “and I believe you’re feed has a lag. Not surprising from outside the Solar System.”

“Then where am I the most useful? I’ve only got about ninety minutes before the relay has to change,” Tony checked the map on the monitor past his headset, a bright map showing his shuttle’s path in blue and the bouncing relays time coded by F.R.I.D.A.Y. in red and orange. “Then another two hours or so before I’m dark again.”

“One-hundred and twenty-three minutes, Mr. Stark,” his system chirped.

Bruce shrugged, blandly ordering, “get your metal ass over to Wakanda then.” No sooner had Dr. Banner given him the instruction, Tony’s NY suit powered down, kicking on its automated, robotic return to the storage closet.

* * *

“Barnes!”

The banging on the door made Sam jump in her desk seat. “Shit,” she mumbled when Missy brought up the security pinpoint camera to show Princess Shuri in her full war gear.

“Samantha Stark, open this door,” the banging continued.

Sam glanced at the progress bar reading only 89% COMPLETE—it ticked to 90%. The banging stopped. She knew what came next; they’d just break the door down.

“Missy, open it.”

Shuri came in after a moment of hesitation, an unusually suspicious look melting into curiosity. She saw Bucky prone in the cradle first, her eyes following across the messy room to Sam at the other end.

“I thought…” Shuri straightened. “Barnes must come with me now. I’ll ask about all this,” she waved her hand around, the other wrapping her gauntlets to her chest, “later.”

Sam glanced again at the monitor: 93%. “Like five minutes?” Sam was not used to being given direct orders and coward quickly at the Princess’s sharp advance to her corner of lab.

“No, girl, now,” Shuri demanded, trying to get at the console behind Sam.

“Ok, I’ll stop it, just,” Sam scrambled to shut down the cradle and revive Bucky, “he’ll meet you…where?”

“He’ll know,” Shuri squinted at Sam all while her eyes flickered over as many details of the room as she could before leaving. From down the hall, one more shrieking “now” rang out.

Trying not to think of all the little things that could go wrong, Sam grabbed the small pile of clothes Bucky had set on the dresser. “Damn it,” she breathed. She’d been anxious enough watching the slow pieces of progress, staring in concern between every rise and fall of his chest in the glow of the cradle, and to have her golden opportunity cut short…with so little time left to begin again or think or a new, impressive contribution… Sam was gutted. What if she’d screwed something up? What if he couldn’t fight anymore? What if he got hurt because the arm wasn’t right?

Bucky stirred. Sam’s heart pounded. She choked back rippling tears, so afraid to admit she may be wrong. Before she moved into Bucky’s view, Sam pressed the fabric against her face and screamed. Even on the floor of the kitchen in Massachusetts, covered in scalding water, alone, she had never been this afraid. It felt as if she’d been sitting at a table learning the rules of poker only to blink into the spotlight of world-wide broadcast competition. She was not ready.

Bucky’s eyes fluttered.

“Captain Barnes,” Sam’s voice wavered, “they need you to meet Shuri for a mission.” If she had screwed up, she didn’t deserve to call him a familiar name.

The stimulant the cradle administered was strong with very little grogginess. “Did it work?” Bucky asked calmly. Sam wished he were not so lucid while she admitted their current situation.

“I—I had to stop to wake you. It’s mostly done, but I don’t have time to check anything. Here,” she handed him the skirts as he sat up. “You have to go,” she said, and then quietly, “I’m sorry.”

He stared intently at the door as he jumped off the table. “Ok, I’ll be back then,” he replied monotonously and left. Perhaps it should have assured Sam that Bucky noticed nothing different, sliding on his shirt without a glance to his new shoulder before he was out of sight.

If Sam had eaten enough, she would have vomited right then. Her stomach whirled about. She felt light-headed. A vicious part of her brain stopped her from rushing after him. _What could you do now? What help would you be? You’ve done enough…_

* * *

T’Challa gave a small nod towards the remote-controlled Iron Man suit that emerged from a storage chamber in Shuri’s lab. The King of Wakanda’s image was projected in rippling nanoparticles activated when Tony’s signal woke the suit. “We are grateful to have your assistance, Stark.”

“What exactly _am_ I helping with?” Filtering out the suit’s vital statistics, Tony’s eyes flickered over the ticker tape of information Friday delivered now.

“Coordinates have been entered for you to meet us.” The Panther stood fully uniformed except his helmet.

“What does Doom want?”

“Vibranium to enhance himself and his followers,” the king responded.

The suit paused, then jerked its neck to the side. “What is he, some sort of cult leader? Where did he come from?”

“Latveria,” T’Challa’s projection fell away to leave the voice speaking through Tony’s suit directly. Iron Man shot on his way out the door and into the sky. “But that’s not where you’re going.”

Tony could hear Sam Wilson on the comms demanding, “has anyone found Barnes yet? Get him out here. Get—”

“Falcon, you’re fighting again?” Tony allowed himself, in trusting the life-long militant man with a devastating head trauma, a fleeting hesitation. He’d work with what he had.

“Stark?” Wilson’s surprise was equal to Tony’s. “Are you topside again?”

“It is good to have you back, Stark,” Thor’s booming voice echoed in Tony’s headset, “did you bring the Rabbit?”

“When am I ever gonna be enough for you,” Tony feigned emotionally, then jumped right into accessing the situation, “who else do we have?”

“I brought Maximoff,” Wilson chimed, “and the Sub-Mariner may show up since Doom is over the Gulf of Aden.”

“Still not much of a team player, that guy,” Iron Man’s comms crackled. Tony hadn’t had a real conversation with Wanda since she stopped offering him his bizarre therapy a few years before. They’d fought together sure, but nothing any deeper was spoken of than the weather. As far as he knew, she’d moved on to spend most of her time teaching mutants at Xavier’s school. Luckily, this didn’t seem like the occasion where lengthy discussions were imminent. “What’s Doom working with?”

“Tech suit and various energy-projectile capabilities, magic—” Sam Wilson replied.

“Strange?”

T’Challa hesitated. “The Sanctum is not answering.”

“Figures,” Tony mumbled.

“On our way,” Shuri sounded off.

“Great, I’ve got a visual from Red Wing,” Falcon hollered, “land at the beach.” The background cut out, and Tony pressed the suit to render-vous faster.

“Is the atmospheric anomaly the target?” Tony watched several scans of temperature, infrared, and electromagnetic readings for the area where his surrogate suit was programmed to land.

“Tis I,” Thor unnecessarily boomed over comms. Outdoors, the demigod never fathomed the need to adjust volume for sensitive mics. “But I can see the enemy as well. He is over the water.”

“Keep an eye on him. We are almost there,” Shuri answered. Tony shifted the suit’s head to see her and Bucky’s shuttle zooming forward at a lower altitude. He pushed to go faster; Shuri did too and beat him to the beach. He had to hand it to her: the princess was a remarkable innovator and genius.

The Mark XLII suit landed gently on the beach. Shuri stepped out of her shuttle, gauntlets at the ready, and Captain Barnes followed shield on his back, three handguns in various holsters, and assault rifle at the ready. Tony looked curiously on at the hundreds of slender-billed gulls gathering on the beach with more soaring towards them from inland.

“Is this breeding season?” He mused. Barnes strolled over to Iron Man’s suit, shifting his head up towards Falcon soaring overhead doing recon.

“Coast is clear of civilians here,” Wilson rattled. “Why isn’t Doom advancing?”

“I don’t know,” Thor replied.

“Guys,” Tony said, spotting a rise in sea level from behind the hovering metallic figure, “is he doing that?”

The swell rolled forward, passing just below Victor Von Doom’s feet, and as it grew closer, a pale spot appeared in the middle of the wave. Bucky braced the butt of his rifle on his chest. Shuri lifted her arms at the ready.

A massive, bare-chested being broke from the swell of water as it passed under Thor, a shining humanoid robot clutched by the ankle, fighting to escape the grasp. Namor, King of Atlantis, wrenched the poor pawn down to grab it by the neck and rip its head off in one clean motion.

Wilson admired over comms, “this dude is cool as f—”

Shots fired from the rifle to Tony’s right. “They’re coming from the water,” Barnes called out, his attention fixed on the shoreline dotted with dozens more emerging robots.

Tony’s deja vu wrapped him in a vague terror. Just for a moment, Doom became Ultron, the enemy became his fault, again and again. He didn’t know that for sure, whether Doom was born of something Tony started, but all roads always seemed to lead back to him. He’d have to break the cycle eventually. For now, he called back, “light ‘em up,” and flew forward to blow some shit to high hell.

T’Challa clawed his opponents in half like scrap metal. Wanda raised her pray to blossom red fire in between the robotic joints, prying them apart piece by piece. Bucky’s controlled burst sniped down target after target. Shuri blew limbs and heads off with shockwaves. Tony jumped from bot to bot, blasting his boot stabilizers to incinerate where he hoped their CPUs were built in. All-in-all, the pawns were surprisingly weak, but expendability was their purpose.

“Thor, we gotta take out the puppet master,” Tony deduced.

So the thunder reigned, and lightning flashed down to Stormbreaker and bolted towards Doom. The metallic shielding repelled the blast back at the beach, and Iron Man danced out of its path, allowing the full force of Thor’s wrath to squarely hit Bucky’s chest.

“Buck,” Sam Wilson yelled, a bazaar of peregrine falcons swooping past him aimed at Doom while the solider himself landed to check on his friend. The hunting birds dodged and distracted the floating figure, tossing the flying boots off balance. Dr. Doom scrambled momentarily.

The sea rose again below him, but this time, it was all Namor’s doing. The king called forth a swirling mass of frothing water to encase Victor Von Doom.

Bucky’s screams rang over comms with crackling force.

“He’s sparking my wings. I can’t get near him,” Falcon called out for help, “we gotta get him off the beach.”

T’Challa insisted, “Stark, take him before we lose your connection.”

Iron Man raced forward, tossed Bucky’s rifle away, grabbing the secured straps holding the shield and launched inland. From Tony’s feed in space, he could tell that Barnes was still dissipating the chain’s force by the flashes of black interference. He had only 25 minutes of connection to return a 40 minute trip. Luckily, if he was right, the super-soldier he carried could survive a break in the sound barrier…maybe.


	22. Failure

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO—February 2039

The sound of her blood pumping was like a siren as Sam bounded down the corridors of the tower. She heard it all when Missy tapped into the team’s comms. That amount of electricity…she didn’t know what his arm could truly endure attached to different tissue. Sam planned for the worst when she snagged vials from her room, yelling at Missy to go ‘ultra dark,’ as she called it. To think there was evidence on Missy of an obvious mistake, something she’d missed, Sam was too ashamed; Missy would have to hide it, and she was programmed to erase herself if it wasn’t Sam who returned. With any luck, and a little faith in her own intelligence, that would never happen.

Several prominent members of Wakandan nobility and palace staff stared as she barreled past, clutching a small velvet pouch. She had to get outside to the landing pad as quickly as possible. Just as she skidded around the corner to the great gallery offering a view of the concrete pad and the fields beyond, Iron Man landed with a thud, indelicately dropping Captain Barnes onto the hard ground. For a moment, Sam hesitated at the door. If she couldn’t fix the malfunction in Bucky’s arm, her father would be _right there_ to witness it. Her chance would be over, and it may have already been gone if this had cost them their fight.

This might be her entire legacy: ruining a soldier’s body and poisoning her own. That’s all Tony Stark would ever know about her, and Bucky would never forgive her. Sam’s arms shook when she pulled the grand door open enough to squeeze through. Shuri’s medical team was hustling across the pad from a different direction, so Iron Man stood facing away, calling out what had happened.

The wind took half of his words. “—arm is stuck in—looping the strike—of Thor—” Tony’s suit seemed to jump awkwardly, moving too robotically to be functioning properly. Sam took her chance. While the medics babbled in confusion, unable to get Iron Man to understand or turn around, she jumped over to Bucky’s left. The residual charge had dissipated; he didn’t shock her. She started trying to unbuckle his strapped jacket. Bucky jerked around, muffling screams for a few seconds before letting out a growl, then stuffing what noise he could back behind excruciating, jagged breaths. Sam’s weak fingers stalled on the thick leather and icy metal from his high-altitude transport.

“You have to stop flailing,” Sam tried, “I have to get to the shoulder.” Bucky rolled away, pushing her hands and arms off of him. “Hey, it’s me,” she tried again, leaning farther over his bulky form to grab his face, “it’s Sam. Please let me fix it, ok?” Bucky’s cold, blue gaze landed on her with a ferocity that stopped her heart. He looked at her as if she were sticking a white-hot poker into his shoulder, letting loose a howl that froze her further. Sam knelt back on her heels, terrified.

“You,” Tony’s mechanized voice said behind her, “move away.”

The velvet was soft in her twitching fingers. She had to try. Sam looked up to hold Bucky’s gaze long enough to see _some_ recognition and then went back to furiously undoing the top buckles. The leather snapped against her delicate fingers, and she felt her nails bend backwards when she pulled at the clasps. She peeled away the thick fabric to reveal another shirt.

“Really?” Sam breathed, but she grabbed the neckline as hard a she could and pulled until she could she the dip between his collarbone and humerus. Pulling out a syringe and needle from her pouch, she leaned her weight to steady him. “ _Youwe ill fill uh foo…_ ” she started, holding the cap in her teeth, but the rest was too garbled to translate.

“That’s all vibranium. Your needle won’t go through—“ Iron Man tried to explain walking back towards his charge while the medics shuffled around him. Tony maneuvered the suit to see around Sam, getting a glimpse of pale flesh. “What the hell, Barnes?!”

Over the series of small injections around the edge of his left shoulder and pectoral muscle, Tony could see Bucky’s veins glow lightly. It took a moment for him to realize there was no metal at all. Bucky’s legs stopped scratching beneath him, and his shifting lessened. When Sam finally pulled the needle away, she attempted to reassure Bucky with a half-smile, smoothing his long hair out of his face. After a few more seconds, his pinpoint pupils relaxed.

Sam sat back on her heels, relaxed this time. “Ok,” she huffed, “it’s okay.”

Several medics stood or knelt around them now, watching, arranging different implements from their cases, or shouting orders to others left by the doors.

Iron Man bent down to rip the black leather glove from Bucky’s hand, a real, skin-covered hand. Then the red and gold face looked up to see _her_ face up to the sky as she panted. “Sam?” Tony stuttered, taking in her short hair for the first time. “What _happened_!”

The suit twitched quick bursts of audio and motion. “What did you do? What is that? It looks—are you serious? Did you do that to him? We could have DIED!”

She tried to stand and back away, but as she rose, Iron Man latched his glove onto Sam’s arm. Sam squirmed against the suit pathetically. The medics ignored them, heaving Bucky onto a hovering table and collectively leaving to care for his recovery.

“Sam,” Tony yelled, clenching in his shock and outrage, but the connection cut in and out. Her name was cut short the second time, and the iron hand shut hard above her left elbow, the same spot that healed after her bike accident.

The snap of her bone was audible. Her eyes widened, and she fell onto boney knees that ached. Iron Man released her arm to let it fall, limp, to her side. Sam hissed in agony. The suit said nothing more. Mark XVII walked methodically back inside to its closet.

With a tickling precision, the hair on the back of Sam’s arm stood on end, a small shiver crawled up her neck, and the pad in front of her shimmered. Sam tried to jump out of the way was fast as she could before the bifrost cracked and burned its design into the concrete. And just like that, Thor stood, arms outstretched in smoldering, rainbow glory.

“Victory,” the god of thunder bellowed, golden hair flying in triumph.

The Dora Milaje moved to chant a congratulations, and the bystanders turned towards the Asgardian long enough for Sam to sneak away into the tree line.

* * *

Tony ripped the headset off and slammed it against the wall. The durable screen only cracked, making it the least broken thing held by Tony Stark. He’d heard it clear as day, a different kind of snap, one that he couldn’t take back, one he’d never forget.

“Sir,” Friday asked, concerned, “are you alright?”

Tony felt entirely disconnected from reality. As many times as he had controlled an XLII, he had mostly been on Earth, once in orbit, never hundreds of thousands of miles away. That was the first time he had even been with his own daughter inside the suit, _and you broke her god damn arm, asshole._ He kept replaying it over and over. Bucky knew her well enough to let her handle him. His little girl jumped on top of a soldier to shove a syringe into him. What the hell would she know about treating him? Why the hell was his shoulder covered in skin? Was it made of flesh? What the hell was Shuri playing at? Did the Wakandan Princess, genius that she was, recruit Sam into this madness? Sam was at Harvard, doing what, Tony had no clue, but she was at Harvard Medical…so she would know…

She would understand how much force he’d used on her arm in order to break it; Sam would blame him. In fact, Tony could not be sure it _wasn’t_ his fault that the suit gripped that hard. He wanted to blame the connection or the suit, but he knew full well that no lag in connection would let the suit move outside of his mimicked motion. At very least, the suit would never do a _more_ violent movement than instructed to execute. The lag would cause a weakened response, not an increased.

“Friday,” he huffed, “get us home as fast as possible. Whatever it takes.”

* * *

Bucky walked quietly through the packed earth between trees in the forest behind his hut. The rough guess was that Sam had wandered out past the goats’ grazing fields, but only Shuri had spoken to him about Sam’s involvement at all. The commanding scientist had seemed particularly upset by security footage, threatening to raid Sam’s room for information if the girl wasn’t found quickly. Only after all that formality did Shuri lean closer to Bucky and explain that Sam might be hurt. Shuri did not believe the reclusive Sam would let any guard help, and while Shuri was intrigued by the soldier’s new appendage, she sent Bucky off after a few quick checks.

“Just don’t die, and don’t let her either, until I can figure this out,” the princess demanded. “Get going, Barnes.”

So he jogged off to make up the head start his weak, injured prey had. Since this wasn’t a mission in which he anticipated contacting firepower—or anyone other than Samantha Stark, an eighteen-year-old science nerd—Bucky held no weapon and stayed fairly relaxed, letting his mind wander during his treck out past his home.

What would the metal of his weapon feel like without the glove? Would the rapid-fire barrel be hot to the touch? Other than the force of Thor’s lightning, would things be painful, different than his ‘natural’ side? Normal things like airflow, fabric, even his own fingers brushing his palm distracted him. He took on a slower pace, obsessed with the touch of bark on the trees and the smoothness of leaves. Bucky had spent so many decades feeling nothing in his left arm that the sensations made him feel heavy, lopsided with the attention being demanded by new neurons. He could feel the rolling of muscle fibers over bone when turning his wrist, the gentle friction of prints when rubbing fingers together, and the smooth, flat nails when making a fist. He had skin, layers of malleable material over tough fibers and hard bone. Perhaps he should refer to those as a close approximation to flesh, since he knew it wasn’t strictly flesh. He did not understand the science, but this was the first ‘improvement’ given _with_ his permission and not explicitly to make him _stronger, deadlier,_ or more _controllable._ Sam had worked tirelessly to make him feel more human. Not only had she asked him, but Sam waited for his decision.

Years of the Avengers constantly rushing to add more weapons and protections had left Bucky feeling as if he was being poured into Steve’s old mold of Captain America. Of course, Steve got the benefit of being a pacifist at heart, so his improvements and upgrades were mainly costume enhancements. The Winter Soldier was solely born to kill; it was the one stigma of that past that never washed away. Bucky just killed for the good guys now, or as Tony told him to think about it, “evil suppression.” The Avengers made a lot of assumptions about him in the long run. Whether he really wanted to or not, Bucky was made into too good of a soldier to retire, ever.

Bucky slowed as he heard crackling twigs ahead. Silent as a ghost, he advanced to see Sam dragging her feet in an exhausted shuffle forward, scraping mounds of leaves up with her toes. He crept closer. She looked like a zombie, wandering alone without any of her own kind. Sam no longer held her arm in front of her. Unlike the security footage Shuri had shown him to trace what direction Sam ran off in, her broken arm hung limp at her side. She walked so slowly that it would only take a few paces to reach her side, and he could see her clutching a small package to her chest with her right hand. Her focus did not find him. She seemed to have no focus at all.

Mid-step, Sam collapsed.

Bucky hurtled forward when he saw Sam’s limp body fall and hit the dirt. When he made it to her, he spread her across his lap, but her eyes were closed. He tried to revive her, smoothed his new hand over her face, her hair, calling her name softly. She didn’t wake immediately.

It took thirty-five excruciating seconds for Sam to regain consciousness. He checked her pulse and breathing. His pleas became commands. Seeing blood on the inside of her broken arm, he searched for where to place a bandage. He smeared crimson back and forth with his gloved hand, but there was no wound to find. He patted Sam’s face to bring her around, leaving bloody marks on her cheek. Sam’s eyes opened slowly, like chocolates unwrapped with care and anticipation.

“Hey,” Bucky whispered. “Stay with me. Tell me what to do. I’ll help.” Her experiments on herself made it so that no bruising showed. Her skin looked a fresh, pink beige. She didn’t look sick, but one bicep seemed to be swelling to twice the size of the other. She still slumped like a wet rag while he held her.

“Please don’t,” Sam quietly rasped back, “it hurts like hell.”

Bucky gave in to a small smile, though she remained looking off into the sky. “Now will still be better than later, I promise.” He looked around. This was going to be one of the more fubar medical procedures he would be part of, but there was no better option. She had walked too far into the woods to carry her back without loosing too much time. It was also probable that Sam would need some sort of surgery after the break was realigned. Bucky would get Sam stable enough to get to the tower.

“Just do it,” Sam caved weakly, but her voice was steady. Her breathing caught, labored, and Bucky knew she would pass out again soon. If he couldn’t see what was going on, he needed her awake to tell him.

He laid Sam down as gently as he could, unfolding his legs from under her, and stretched her flat across what was as tidy a patch of dirt and leaves as any other. He climbed over to crouch at her left side. He tried to hold her gaze to see if she was ready, just as she had done for him earlier, but Sam remained fixated on the branches above them. Even in pain and danger, Starks were stubborn as ever.

 _Relieve some pressure first,_ he thought, _then move the bone back into place._ He reached back into his leg holster for a serrated knife. This was going to get messy.

He took a deep, steadying breath and exhaled. Once he started this, Bucky would have to ignore protests and screams until everything was settled, and he did not look forward to the amount of hate about to spew his way. Natasha was one of the only women he’d ever patched in the field; she was battle-trained and tested yet still let loose a venom he’d rarely experienced. That was her way of coping, Bucky supposed, but Sam was a desk jockey at best. This would get gruesome.

The point of the knife found the top of the swollen bulge in her arm, sliding in easily enough, and there was little more than a whimper from the patient—at first. The force with which blood spat out of the wound pushed her slippery arm right out of his grasp. It spewed everywhere. By the time Bucky got his grasp back around her elbow, the cut was sealed again.

“You just had to experiment on yourself, didn’t you?” he groaned in frustration, wiping blood away where he could.

“It helped Sam, didn’t it,” came a quiet reply between pained breaths.

 _Aw, hell, she’s talking in the third person now. We are really screwed._ The next slice would have to be bigger and faster. He may even have to hold it open for a moment, if her skin would allow it. So that’s what he did, as fast as he could.

The terrified, piercing shriek launched from Sam’s lungs tore at his gut and eardrum alike, and instinctively, Bucky shoved his hand over her mouth, forgetting flesh was susceptible to teeth. Sam’s jaw clamped down on the soft corner of palm just above his wrist. Suddenly it was Bucky fighting a scream, more in shock than unbearable pain. She let go after a long exhale. He had to cut her twice more before the excess pressure released, when the cartoonish sprays of blood stopped to become trickles. Each time her skin sewed itself back together quickly, evenly, with no sign of puncture. The only signal Bucky had as to the toll all this took on Sam was her jaw relaxing and her gaze slowly lolling off to the canopy of the woods.

“Just do it,” she whispered. Her free arm scuttled and groped through the leaves beside her; _probably trying not to take a swing at me_ , Bucky thought.

He settled his knee into the dip of her chest beside her shoulder. He grabbed Sam’s arm above the elbow and ripped it to the side. The sharp crack sounded good, in a way, effective. _Great, she can punch me with this one soon._ Bucky felt Sam’s chest press his knee to rise beneath him, so he moved back to her side. The bulge of swelling returned, and he made another cut with his knife.

This wound, however, did not heal right away, allowing blood to ooze out with a slowing pace. It took a moment for him to understand. When Bucky’s eyes shot back to Sam’s face, her eyes were blank, her whole face lax. His brain exploded into expletives. She’d done so well; he never thought…

He looked over the disastrous, bloody scene beneath him. Sam’s right arm stretched out at an awkward angle with her palm down as if still grabbing for something. A few inches away, tumbled in the dirt and leaves, sat the little velvet pouch, its flap open enough to reveal the cap of another syringe.

Bucky scrambled across the dirt. Now his heart pounded for them both. It could be a pain killer, which would do Sam no good now, or it could be the same serum she’d given to him earlier, which might revive her and might not…

…or it could be more…

He needed it to be more. For the first time in years, he pleaded with himself, with some power beyond himself, anyone or anything, for _this_ to be more.

Bucky tried to slam the needle into Sam’s neck, hoping the pressure remaining might carry whatever was inside far enough into her system to make a difference, but the needle snapped off before it penetrated.

“What the hell,” Bucky huffed. _We do not have time for this, Sam,_ he screamed internally _._ No one had ever made such a fuss about staying alive. Of course, he wanted Sam to be alive, desperately so. Sam made him feel human. Sam had him dreaming again, dreaming about dancing and holidays and birthdays. He actually _felt_ more because of her, and not just in his arm. The idea that Sam would never speak to him again felt crippling. _We could be having our first argument right now. You just have to wake up…_ Why did he not ask her more? He hadn’t told her how amazing it was to have his very own feely, fleshy arm back. She didn’t understand how miraculous that was—she was—for doing that, for giving him that. All she had ever mentioned wanting in return was a little recognition. She wanted to be a part of the family she was born into. Sam would want to keep going, to keep working. Wouldn’t she? Or was that his choice?

Even with the broken tip, Bucky pressed the syringe into Sam’s cut arm, beginning chest compressions with his other hand. He moved it to the other end of the cut to empty the rest, hoping somewhere in there was a vein to take the medicine through. He didn’t know how long to keep compressions up. Every second felt too long and not long enough.

Bucky grabbed Sam’s chin, tilted her head back, closed her nose and blew into her mouth. Once. Twice. Three times. As he returned to chest compressions, her arm caught his eye: no cut. He checked at Sam’s throat and found a weak pulse.

In that instant, he couldn’t stop to think; Bucky scooped Sam into his arms and ran. He ran past his own hut as the sun set behind them, the goats bleating in encouragement and indifference.

In the dark, Sam’s arm glowed a deep, vicious orange, and it was getting brighter. Only in those last strides towards Shuri’s lab within the tower did Bucky begin to fear what he had done to Sam, if he’d made the right choice, if it would even be Sam who woke up…

**End of Part II**


	23. Power: Cryo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky contemplates what to do while Tony completes his travels home.

**Power**

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE—March 2039

Bucky stood with his head hanging over the coffin-like chamber, looking at Samantha’s peaceful face frozen inches below the small, frosty window. He regretted his decision, yet he still could think of no other option. Shuri, completing the cryogenic program, kept watch over the silent soldier. She hadn’t questioned him bursting into her lab with Sam unconscious in his arms. Bucky shrieked for Shuri to put Sam under, and he wouldn’t accept any delay. The glow had spread over Sam’s entire arm and crept towards her heart. He had been too terrified to let it continue; the simplest thing seemed to be putting Sam on ice.

Shuri did, however, have the wherewithal to accumulate as much information as she could from Sam’s body while the princess flash-froze the teen. Shuri had tried, and failed, to explain what was happening to Sam, mainly because even the royal genius could not extrapolate everything from one minute of scans and sampling a rapidly changing body.

Hours later, with Bucky still standing above Sam’s chamber, Shuri returned from raiding the girl’s room for more answers, holding a brown, paper-wrapped package. “Barnes, what I am telling you is this is a mess. The Stark girl is a mess,” she started, ignoring the flicker of his eyes when she didn’t use Sam’s name, “even if I could delay or cure the virus she just gave herself—”

“I gave it to her,” Bucky corrected.

“—which I cannot at this moment…and you may have depressed a plunger, but Samantha Stark carried it with her into that wood.”

“It was my choice,” Bucky clarified, “she was already gone.”

“If I undo that,” Shuri continued, pointedly, “she will die from the incompatibility of her skin, which she was dying of anyway. Did you know she did that?”

Bucky made no reply, but when he finally looked up, his face was a mosaic of conflict. His jaw was tight, stoic; his eyes guilty and afraid; and his lips a full and unwavering frown. Shuri took no pleasure in explaining the grave prognosis.

“She would be dead if she—you—hadn’t injected the Extremis virus. That’s what this is. Her skin already starved her body.” Shuri could not tell whether Bucky was listening. “But,” she continued slowly, deliberately, “Samantha has not only dosed herself with two different viruses, neither of which has a cure _currently_ , seeing as they are mutations of the original, but she has placed vibranium inextricably inside her largest body organ. If I take her out of this box,” she spread her fingers across the window, breaking Bucky’s stare, as if to smother Sam’s face, “and remove the vibranium from her skin, which I don’t know how to do yet, during that time she is unfrozen, Extremis will consume her whole body, change her DNA, and there is no going back. If I take her out and cure her body from the inside, which I don’t know how to do yet, she will still die before I can make her own skin survivable. Beside all of that, I do not have the time or resources to bother with her one life while there are multiple threats to our kingdom and across the planet. We do not even know if the metal-man Doom is dead. King Namor is still searching the sea for him. I am sorry, my friend, but she stays here. We will have to deal with her when the rest is handled.”

“When the hell was the last time we were without a threat?” Bucky’s jaw tightened, holding back a sudden stab of fury. “You mean, after all the enemies that have popped up constantly for two decades are all ‘handled,’ you finally get around to _possibly_ saving her?”

“Don’t think I have forgotten about your arm. _You_ are not in a position to demand anything of me, Barnes.” Shuri walked around the chamber to place her slender form within a foot of the bulky soldier. “I spent a great deal of time helping you once before. You attacked me, spat at me, and cursed me. I know it was not you who did those things. It was a dark part of yourself that _we_ saved you from, but,” she looked directly into Bucky’s eyes with an unwavering determination, “that girl did this to herself. This was her choice. I will not allow one arrogant, foolish, white girl to distract me from aiding my people. I am sick of it. She can wait until her father takes her home for all I care.” Shuri walked over to one of her techs, adding, “take that chamber to the annex lab. Come, Captain Barnes.”

Shuri walked over to a main board with a constellation of dots and lines, leaving Bucky standing over his greatest guilt in this decade thinking about all the other guilts from all his other decades. He tried to be a good man; he tried to right the past, but he always seemed to fail. Sam’s compartment was unceremoniously removed from the lab, and Bucky joined Shuri at the projection, resigned as ever to being instructed on how he might gleam a sliver of redemption for his mistakes.

“What is this,” Bucky mumbled, “Stark’s route back?”

“This is our analysis of new threats, their origin, and movements that we know of,” Shuri said flatly.

Bucky could see the faintest outline of the continents, but several of the dots fell outside of those anyway. It was a jumbled web. Dozens of threats, multiple origins, and half-verified, half-bullshit sightings and leads. He flicked through files in the corner with one finger. Some weren’t even threats: Parker’s newest recruits were classified as ‘unknown agents’ until fully vetted. Drug distributers and engineers, doctors, Victor Von Doom, Namor himself, general descriptions of actual monsters that had been sited terrorizing places from Morocco to Hong Kong.

“You see now why the Stark girl will have to wait.” She took a deep breath before adding, “and I am convinced there is something big missing. I need to know what it is, Barnes, who it is.” Shuri planted the small package in front of Bucky with a heavy thud. “She wiped all of her equipment. I found this in her room. I am not convinced she intended to be saved, James.”

* * *

He didn’t need to go to the annex to be haunted by Sam’s face. Bucky could vividly see the snowy flecks on her dark lashes, a fringe of pure white lining her periwinkle lips, her hair a dark grey in the light of her temporary coffin. Was it temporary though? The way the terrain of enemies stood now, it could be a lifetime before someone could help her. Suppressing the thought of explaining to her father what he’d done, Bucky stopped by Sam’s room before heading back to his hut. It was another all-nighter; dawn had broken two hours earlier. No wonder Shuri had been so short with him. He was surprised by how sparse and clinical the whole place had been made. What once was 98% laboratory and 2% laundry bin now lay in ruins. Almost everything had been quickly stripped and transferred to storage or the princess’s own lab. Bucky sat himself down in the remaining chair, placing the package with Sam’s all-caps handwriting prominently showing ‘Barnes’ facing him on the desk.

Bucky hadn’t considered that it mattered, what Sam did to herself before, or if he knew about it. Why should the other things Sam Stark tinkered with matter to him? None of Tony’s other tinkering did, and if anyone asked him, Tony answered with “evil genius shit, obviously.” Bucky had been trained, incidentally, to not question the technology that created him, and he had to admit that the promise of being made more human was too tempting to start arguing now.

He remembered her admission of being her own patient. He should have known; he should have pressed her for more, maybe then he could be of some use. The way Sam had behaved…how did Bucky not _see_ how desperate she was? She’d sat at that very desk and comforted him, promised him his own wildest dreams, all while she was dying, slowly, probably painfully. Starved, Shuri had said, Sam had starved right before him, fainted even, and Bucky had done nothing but talk about dancing and taking up farming and having lived decade after decade with friends and family. Those same people, they should have been Sam’s family, too, but no one was here now.

Bucky picked up his gift. He sat, running his thumbs against the course paper. He took another long moment before running a finger under the corner of tape and ripping down.

A rusted burgundy box lay beneath with the label ‘James Buchanan’s Blended Scotch Whisky.’ He covered his mouth and shut his eyes. Aged 18 years, indeed. Bucky ran his fingers back and forth over his stubble, noting yet another unfamiliar feeling to his left hand. More than any other moment in his long life, he felt utterly helpless, but his guilt remained constant, an ever-flowing river beneath the stone surface. _I cannot be responsible for another Stark’s death._ The thought caught in his brain, rattling around, growing louder.

Bucky clutched the bottle in his hand, feeling his new flesh give way to glass. That simple sensation, gripping things with malleable pressure, was still so foreign. It was as disquieting as seeing the reflection of the Winter Soldier in a mirror: natural and terrifying all at once, half-memory and half-reality. The faces of Howard and Maria flashed before him as they had done countless times before, angled wide-eyed below him as their only granddaughter’s face had been just yesterday. Tony truly would kill him, and again Bucky would agree with Tony. He deserved it. His debts could never be repaid. He could not win.

He had more in common with Sam than he’d ever noticed before, yet there was a defined yin and yang to their histories. Bucky Barnes could not get out of this life serving the Avengers, and Samantha Stark could not get in.

“Hey, buddy,” Sam Wilson interrupted from the doorway, folding his arms across his chest as he cautiously watched Bucky. His dark eyes were sympathetic. He must have been curtailing his curiosity. It was unlike him to say so little, and without a wise-crack. The seated soldier would have bristled less if Falcon had called him ‘Bucko’ in this moment. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

* * *

They can describe space as lonely, vast, and cold all they want, but no one truly explains the maddening effects of spinning around in the equivalent of a tin can with nothing surrounding you for lightyears. Your brain is all you have, and the human brain is marvelously fallible. Everything about the human mind, and body, can be deceived in one way or another.

Just one more jump. He had to hold out for just one more, but still the memories bled into the joy that goal brought to him.

Tony could hear them now: Pepper and Sam. They were playing with these little colored blocks of different shapes. Tony sat down with them. Little Sam picked up a bright red cube, and at ten months old, chucked it at Tony’s head, hitting his cheekbone with a corner.

Pepper held eighteen-month-old Sam against her hip, staring up at the gigantic bronze statue of Captain Marvel, the woman who saved the universe by snapping her fingers twice. She whispered into her child’s ear, “I hope you never have to fight, sweetheart,” then looked at Tony, stretching out one hand to his. “Promise me,” she demanded.

Down in his headquarters’ lab, one of Tony’s latest adjustments to the suit caught fire while he worked late one night. Pepper rushed in, screaming about safety for the umpteenth time, the speech nearly drowned out by the roar of fire suppressant. Sam’s second birthday was later that week. His adjustment was supposed to be a little surprise at the party, shaped and colorful fireworks that he could launch from his flight stabilizers, but he gave up on it when he saw how red Pep’s face became trying to stop him from endangering a group of kids.

Tony graciously took teeter-tooter two-year-old Sam for the day while he scouted a new medical facility site with Happy near DC. He let her chase a butterfly around while assessing the terrain. Sam ended up with poison sumac over her hands and face. She cried for nearly two weeks.

Tony tripped right over her once.

He had to stop Sam from choking on a chicken finger.

He opened the fridge into her face, shut her finger in a drawer, forgot her in the tub.

All of this, and then he lost her mother…and then Sam almost got crushed by Hulk.

There was something Pepper said in jest over coffee one morning when the sumac was almost healed: “at this rate Tony, we’ll have to protect Sam from you.” Now, he couldn’t even ballpark how many times that thought had repeated in his head and his heart over the past years. How could he _not_ be ashamed to be her father? Pepper was the only thing that kept him remotely qualified for the job, and without her Sam deserved better.

And so he had provided better. The Avengers were the best people Tony had ever known; they could do the job better than him. In his mourning, in his distraction, he was no use to Sam.

Tony felt the familiar weightless flutter of his heart, as if gravity no longer held his insides down in one direction but crushed them from all sides. He’d had these pains since the wormhole over Stark Tower, and by now he was used to the feeling, able to shift his mind to jokes and movie quotes and sarcasm, but today was not the same.

He thought back to that horrible day on Titan, when Steven Strange hummed like a tuning fork to predict their futures. Fourteen million, six hundred and five. Tony might be one of the few people who could honestly fathom that quantity of information; he dealt entirely in terabytes and megatons and exponentials. Tony’s global-thinking mind had not been prepared for a galactic shit show that day, however, so he asked Strange: “how many do we survive?”

The look Strange had given him, to this day, was indescribable, and more infuriating still were the Doctor’s next words.

“Can you trust me, Stark?”

Beyond answering a question with another question, Tony _met_ that guy the day before. _Trust issues doesn’t even begin to cover it, Dumbledore. What is the god damn plan?!_ If this was what he invested his faith in, Tony would punch Strange in the face right now and die…

Nope. He still wouldn’t be happy. He had to see Sam first.

One last jump.


	24. Daybreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An emergency sweeps over Wakanda. Tony returns to Earth.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR—March 2039

“The King of Atlantis and his sentries are still searching the seas for Doom, and our ground intel has garnered no further sightings,” T’Challa finished his portion of the brief in a mumble of disappointment. “I cannot ask Namor to continue to expend resources when weeks have left us no closer to capture or proof of death.”

Shuri nodded toward her brother. “At least the threat of a wide release of D-Lite seems to be handled for now. Romanoff has completed her trace of the tainted heroin from Marshall’s facility after it arrived in Hong Kong and will return to New York soon.”

Bucky remained seated, quiet and watchful. He and the white-haired Ororo were the only two that did not speak. T’Challa’s betrothed sat quietly, eyes turned away towards the windows. Ororo, Storm they called her, always became the most concerned when the weather was beautifully clear. Nature spoke to her, and when nature was quiet, she listened harder. Bucky was mostly distracted by her hair, a silkier, lighter version of T’Challa’s mother’s, and Ramonda had the loveliest hair. Sam Wilson nudged him to participate, but Bucky lifted a palm to indicate Wilson could proceed without him.

Falcon started the hologram, describing several mutated figures captured from across Northern Africa. “Unfortunately, these appear to be victims of the same drug Nat tracked down in China. A portion of the shipment must have been smuggled into a Mediterranean port before we were able to intercept. Less than half of those we’ve found took it voluntarily, but none of those can describe their attackers.”

The whole group sighed in exhaustion. While this was a lazy, mid-morning gathering, mission after mission fighting for a semblance of control across the world left them ragged. T’Challa scanned the information but asked nothing. That part was Bucky and Wilson’s assignment, and the King of Wakanda left it in their hands. Monsters, creatures, mutants, inhumans—whatever you wanted to call them needed to be captured, questioned, and distributed to the proper authority. Criminals to the police, victims to the proper hospital or therapy, and children and young adults to Xavier’s School.

Bucky was a soldier, neither a babysitter nor a therapist, but witnessing the confused, violent suffering of newly transformed people took its own special toll. When a Dosed woman screamed “Who could do this to someone?” with tears streaming down her face before her insides boiled out through every orifice, Bucky thought of Sam’s apparent “choice” to become something else. That woman died in transformation. When another Dosed man viciously slashed at him with thorny tentacles, growling about his right to be as powerful and deadly as he could manage, Bucky thought of Sam becoming an unrecognizable enemy. However, since that first meal after the team dropped Doom off the coast to supposedly drown, Wilson had conspicuously failed to mention either Samantha or Bucky’s new arm. Big Sam did seem to eye him knowingly whenever Bucky’s thoughts wandered to a new sensation or her condition. Bucky thought to say something aloud a few times, but _what_ he wanted to say changed constantly, multiple times a day, for weeks. So while Falcon remained methodical and cool-headed, Bucky felt as though the unknown outcome of each mission was unravelling him like a single thread pulled from a parachute. At some point, his mind wouldn’t hold up his body anymore, and he’d crash.

”Stark is due back today,” Wilson added after a long pause. Bucky jolted from his reverie.

Shuri nodded again. “We have tracked his progress in the solar system, a few hours at most an—.”

Ororo snapped up from her chair. “Something is wrong.”

Dora Milaje burst into the room.

“My King, there is…we must go.”

Shuri furiously swiped through her tablet to view the alarm. “The border registers a sea level disturbance.”

T’Challa straightened. “I am not fleeing from an earthquake.” Storm grabbed his arm, eyes clouding as white as her hair briefly.

“It’s not an earthquake, brother,” Shuri stood this time, shuffling across the room, “it is a tsunami.” She said no more before bolting down the hallway.

Without pause, everyone seated rose and rushed out after her. T’Challa ordered transports sent to villages to remove civilians from the ground back to the highest buildings. Shuri sent evacuation instructions to crowded rural populations on higher ground, then divided any remaining areas to select guards and their Kimoyo beads. Falcon got his assigned location and jumped from the nearest balcony. Storm descended to assist the transports heading to the coast outside. The terrain of Wakanda flashed through Bucky’s mind as the orders were given, allowing a sickening thought to awaken: the annex lab sat in a gentle valley closer to the cost.

He spun Shuri around to face him. “What about Samantha?”

“There is no time, James. We must get as many civilians above it as possible.”

“She is a civilian.”

“The cryo tanks should survive the impact. We built them outside of the barrier for a reason, and you know that Barnes. You cannot go—”

Bucky was out the door before Shuri could finish; ‘should’ was not good enough. He took his bike from the platform and raced towards the secluded building where he’d first been stored decades ago when Steve hid him in Wakanda. He had been given the chance to reclaim his mind and his life; he could not let Sam die submerged in a tomb of his own making. He feared her changing, but he feared her death more.

His bike had never felt slower though he topped the speedometer as high as he dared. He could feel the heavy impact of his steps on the soft ground, the concrete floor, the suspended stairs, and finally on the clanking metal scaffold in front of Sam’s frozen, serene face. Bucky tapped the panel to the right of the container. It showed only her unchanging vitals and temperature control; he was not authorized to change it.

“Shuri,” he shrieked through the comms. She didn’t answer right away. “Shuri!”

“I’m sorry, Barnes. I’m not going to expose you both. Get to the highest lev—”

Bucky cut off his comm. He slammed his fists against the clear, solid wall between him and Sam. _There must be a failsafe on impact, something, anything to trigger the door._ It was only when he stopped beating the glass to pry the seal that he heard the small beeps.

The screen to the right had changed. It showed neon green text against a black screen, like an ancient computer: James Buchanan Barnes? Yes/No

He tapped Yes. Another question: Will you save Samantha Stark? Yes/No

He tapped Yes again. Almost before he hit the response, one more question popped up: Do you promise? Yes/No

 _What the hell?_ He tapped Yes, and the modern screen appeared again, flashing the start of the reversal sequence. The vapor and frost seemed to take an eternity to dissipate, and Bucky could see nothing outside of the fogged windows facing the valley. He willed the chamber to warm faster, but a thought sprang up in the back of his mind. _If the sequence isn’t complete, or the whole process is rushed, what happens to her?_ His stomach churned. Time slowed to a crawl.

The fear left him when the glass slid away from a flesh-toned Sam. It had to; there was no time for fear. Bucky gracelessly heaved Sam over his shoulder and fled the building. When the rhythm of his run slowed, approaching the motorcycle, he noticed her moving. The excitement he felt died when he saw her face as she clawed her way out of his arms. Sam screamed, eyes fixed on the bike. _What the hell?_

“No,” Sam screamed over and over pulling away from him with every ounce of energy she could muster which was shockingly strong.

 _You idiot, Buck. Her accident._ “Sam, I promise I’ll keep you safe. Stop, quit fighting—you have to get on.”

She didn’t relent. For a moment, Bucky thought of knocking her unconscious, but he couldn’t bring himself to swing. Then he saw her skin, orange and raging into a glowing yellow, like a twinkling star up close, but that wasn’t all. Whole areas over her body shone blue and flashed as if the yellow beneath were trying to escape. They still had to move. “Get on the damn bike!”

Dragged forward by his arms, Sam fell to her knees. She’d stopped screaming, now only taking huge rattling breaths, no longer loud enough to hide the rushing sound of water nearby.

 _If the wave is that close,_ Bucky thought, _it’s too late_ , and the water slammed him back into the corner of the building.

* * *

The flash of the barrier nearly blinded him on reentry. Unable to reach anyone on comms, Tony jetted towards Wakanda pulling so many g’s, he nearly passed out and crash-landed outside the glistening dome. His body fatigued by Earth’s gravity, he kept the entire Iron Man suit on to prop up his weakened skeleton. The fog was thick, the ground covered in nearly two inches of water that rippled slowly as it slid back downhill. _Bit odd for this terrain._ He looked around. He had to use infrared sensors to perceive anything over two meters away. His scan showed rubble to his right, two prone bodies, and an warning that one more approached from behind him.

He squelched through the mud towards the bodies. _Friendlies?_

“You filthy, selfish surface dwellers,” a deep voice echoed from behind him. “My wave should have crushed you.”

_Not friendly then, but familiar._

“Payment is required for your missteps, human.” This time the growl was personal, delivered with acid irritation, but no form or shadow could penetrate the mist.

Tony leaned down to the first body. Friday sensed a pulse, scanned, and found no other injuries. He rolled the mud-covered figure to face him, wiping hair away and out of the receding water. It was Sam, barely. From a video connection across space, nearly a year ago at Harvard, and a boozy-fog of a wedding reception, he had little reference for her features beneath the caked earth, yet his daughter was laying unconscious in a field with an enemy 15 meters away. He looked at her scan again: no indications of a healed fracture, or any injury at all. Had he been wrong? Worried these weeks for nothing?

“He took her because of you, Stark,” the voice shouted.

Tony spun, blasters ready, struggling to raise his heavy arms. There stood the King of Atlantis, shimmering in the low light of the mist, hardly dressed and dripping wet.

“What did you do?” Tony blurted. His interactions with Namor were more limited than those with Sam. Namor always struck him as an even more arrogant and fool-hardy version of himself, _or perhaps just a younger version_ , except with zero humor. Add in the additional intensity of blood royalty, and King Waterworld embodied everything that irritated Tony.

A long, sharp trident lowered towards Iron Man’s neck. “What have I done? You and that cheeky princess have enabled the terror and destruction on my city. You killed my people.”

Tony touched a finger to the foreign sea metal to nudge it away from himself and Sam. “I literally just got here, so you’re gonna need to be more specific. Last I saw, you were helping zap a zit off that coast,” he pointed, taking the opportunity to stand and step away. Friday beeped that the second form was stirring.

The king’s nostrils flared. “A mutant dosed with _my_ genetic code—the containment for which Princess was solely responsible—attacked my home. My betrothed was taken,” Namor seethed, gripping his weapon anxiously, “Tigershark, he called himself, and when he razed our palace, he claimed we could ‘thank Young Stark.’”

Tony’s mind went into overdrive, processing years of information told in pieces or briefs all at once: Namor’s DNA, ‘Young Stark,’ the glow he’d seen Sam inject into Bucky’s shoulder. Extremis samples in the Wakandan shipment stolen a year earlier, among samples of multiple mutants. Simon Marshall’s experiments to produced new mutants. Marshall taught at Harvard. Sam went to Harvard. ‘Young Stark.’ No trace of a healed break… _Stall_.

“Yes,” Tony stumbled before catching his stride, “our lifespans must be very comical down below. You look marvelous for being twice my age, by the way. You know, I diet, but—”

“Enough,” Namor bellowed then advanced. “Dorma,” the king whispered, “deserves justice.”

“And just out of pure curiosity,” Tony added, “what would satisfy your…justice? I’m not up on my Atlantean law—”

“You cheek, as the Princess up there does—” Tony kept his eyes fixated on the direction of the trident, now raised to the hill of the city—“It seems the guilty of the surface can do nothing but belittle the lives of my people. You,” Namor snapped at the newly risen figure behind the rubble. “They call you Captain. Are you the one who stopped my ocean’s advance? I doubt it, weak as you appear after a little splash.” The king smirked.

Tony shifted to see Barnes covered head to toe in thick, dripping muck. “You look like shit,” Tony stated flatly. On any other day, Tony would be thankful for that small victory. That irritatingly naive soldier never aged and still acted oblivious to having fangirls across the world ogling his blue eyes. Tony watched those blue eyes roll across the ground, slowly sweeping back when he saw Samantha’s body a few feet away. Today, Tony was simply thankful Namor had no clue Samantha Stark existed. Bucky met Tony’s gaze, a question silently conveyed and answered in an instant. _Bless you for being sharper than you look, Terminator—wait, what do I call you now?_

Bucky raised his hands slowly, stepping away from Sam. “You can deal with me.”

“ _You_ did nothing,” Namor advanced savagely. “What good does a lap dog do me?”

Tony jumped in to further distract the sub-mariner. “Actually, that one is definitely more of a cat. Very anti-social, gives everybody dirty looks. The original Cap, now he’s your golden retriever typ—”

“How then—” the tines of the trident laced around the iron throat “—do you propose to make amends?” Namor slid his hand up the shaft to tower over Tony, face to face.

Inside the suit, Tony’s eyes shifted to Sam. She hadn’t moved yet. The helmet split open to reveal his own haggard face to the king. “I can bring her back to you,” he said honestly, “Dorma, was it? But for the record, I did not knowingly help anyone to attack you—”

“Stark,” Bucky mumbled in warning.

“I can offer you…myself, as a hostage and helper in finding this—this Tigershark.”

Namor regarded Tony thoroughly, sizing up his ability and his sincerity all in one raking with his pitch black eyes.

“I know what that feels like,” Tony quietly added, “to lose her.”

This seemed to refocus the King on his answer. “And Wakanda’s Princess will give me the tool to rip apart that murderer,” Namor said finally.

“We’ve got all sorts of tools,” Tony chirped, “take your pick.”

Namor twisted his trident to pinch the suit’s jaw and shoulder. “I require the Cosmic Cube.”

 _Except that one_ , Tony thought, _holy shit, you are not getting an infinity stone._ “That’s…not currently available for loan,” he started, though the trident twisted more, “but Cap here will take your request straight to top brass, yes?”

Tony could only assume Bucky nodded behind him when the scraping metal slid away from his own neck.

“There will be other consequences,” Namor allowed, “once Tigershark is killed and Dorma is safe.”

“Of course,” Tony said, “I’ve heard shark is delicious.” From the look returned to him, Tony knew he’d need to hold his tongue as best he could.

“Humans are disgusting,” Namor grunted, yet tossed his head to lead Tony away.

Stark sighed in relief for equipping that suit to be air-tight and pressurized when necessary. Tony checked his oxygen supply left from re-entry. The marker read 79%, so maybe he wouldn’t die…right away. The king grabbed the suit’s arm when Tony delayed, a grip as tight as a vice, and led them back towards the sea. _Poetic justice if he snaps my arm,_ Tony mused. “I will not drown you,” he added, “as long as you are useful.”

 _Ah, there it is_ , _the warm tingle of friendship._ As Tony shut and sealed his helmet again, squelching through the mud, he hoped Barnes understood to protect his daughter in his absence.

* * *

Bucky was attempting to get an arm under Sam and enough traction under his feet to lift her when Wilson yelled from above that he was incoming.

“Sweet Barbecuing Betty,” Falcon sassed as he landed beside Bucky kneeling in the mud. “Look at the crisp on that wall.”

Bucky looked up to see some of the fog clearing. A black, charred streak defaced the entire side of the four story annex building. Towards the center of the mark were indentation with white ash peeling away in the damp.

Falcon continued, hands on hips, taking a few steadying, wet breaths. “When did Shuri create that bomb, you think? Wish she would have told you about it before you drove right into the line of fire. Your comm wash away?”

“How many did it get?” Bucky asked.

Falcon shrugged, lifting his goggles to rub his eyes. “No one past that hill at least. We’re checking the coast now.” He finally looked down towards Barnes before panic rose in his voice. “The hell— Is she breathing? Lil’ Sam, can you hear me?”

“She’s—” Bucky didn’t know how to describe it, but Wilson bent to check her regardless. Pulse fine, breathing slow and unhindered, but his hands and her face were too dirty for him to check her pupils. Instead he changed the subject. “What do you mean—what did you see?” Bucky planted a foot against a root in the ground to push him and Samantha upright.

“From up there,” Wilson rattled, eyes on Sam and using a palm to scrape excess muck off of her, “the water was a strange shape, like it pointed to the city, and then it just…exploded—evaporated really. Looked like a bomb went off. Turned the whole thing to fog and mist and rain… Man, it’s hard to breathe in this. Think she’s having trouble?” Falcon checked her for the third time, looking towards the building for the next safest step. The blackened building distracted both men for a moment, specifically the bottom of the scorch mark that showed a perfect outline of a human bust. Wilson spun around, assessing the newly visible terrain. They were standing in a wide, shallow hole approximately ten meters across, spotted with sharp blades of sunlight. “You’re gonna tell me what the hell happened here, right?”

Bucky remained fixated on the Annex wall, unflinching. “As soon as I know,” he mumbled before meeting Falcon’s eyes. Bucky shifted Sam’s weight to keep the mud from slipping them apart. “We need to see Banner.”


	25. Compound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samantha wakes up at Avengers HQ New York.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE—April 2039

“They called it Regulating,” Bruce announced, rewinding the faint footage from the second floor of the Wakandan Annex Lab, “according to the recovered video research from Aldrich Killian—well, the military, really.” He smirked, looking quickly back at Bucky, adding “Tony thinks I wasn’t listening, which I wasn’t for part—you get it, he’s very long-winded.”

“He’s not the only one,” Bucky grumbled, eyes fixed on the screen. Bruce played it again.

Two grainy figures in the corner of the frame, Bucky and Samantha, scuffled as she tried to avoid riding the motorcycle. The light Sam emitted grew brighter until his own figure was blotted out until _smack_ —the video fell gray. The moment passed, and the absolute white that replaced it lasted much longer. Eventually, the white faded to reveal Sam standing with her arm out, legs apart and planted. She remained standing only a few seconds longer before collapsing. Her body tumbled in the receding water, covering her in mud, Bucky’s legs slid into the top of frame before catching against the earth. The picture went blurry as the fog of the freshly evaporated sea descended. There was, however, a clearly visible, irregular line where the thick glass of the building’s window had melted in the bottom corner near Sam.

Bruce stopped the footage. “Except when Extremis soldiers couldn’t Regulate, their bodies incinerated themselves and anything around them. This—” he waved his arm through the projection, “—she’s controlling—well, aiming it, I think. And she survived obviously, which means this is something new.” The doctor, jumpy with unanswered questions, uneasy since Bucky first told him they were coming back with ‘complications,’ shuffled over to another desk to pull up a different file. “I keep trying to get a signal to Tony’s suit, but it’s always garbled so far. Shuri didn’t seem to know much about Sam’s physiological alterations.” Banner rubbed his temple. “We are gonna need more than a little—I mean, the _bullshit_ this girl did to herself…”

Bucky turned towards Banner’s ominously lowering voice. He had not heard Hulk’s deeper octave come out of Bruce in years. Bucky watched his friend hold his breath as he willed the sickly green hue to bury itself deep inside again. Bucky could relate to the bloom of anger and the sting of helplessness when faced with the problem of Samantha Stark.

Banner slammed a flesh-colored fist down, rattling some equipment. “I shouldn’t have sent her to Wakanda.”

“Doc, I think she did part of this before we left.” _And the rest is probably my fault_ , he added internally. “It’s not something you could control.”

Bruce peered up at Bucky over the thin rims of his glasses. “In which case, biologically speaking, Sam Stark has been gone for a while.”

Bucky swallowed hard. He knew that to be true, deep down, but he couldn’t shake Tony’s face, resigned to walk into an ocean with a king out for blood all for hope that his daughter would remain safe. Bucky had already failed him because there was no Sam to protect, not the Sam Tony knew. Someone, some _thing_ else lay in the infirmary, and it was his fault. It was Bucky’s choice to take her out before Shuri could come up with a plan. He took advantage of Sam’s interest in replacing his arm instead of her own health. He paid so little attention to her when she needed to be pulled back from the edge; Sam thought it more important to fix her scars then to live, thought fixing Bucky’s scars and self-confidence was worth what was left of her life. How could he have missed it? Bucky Barnes, the King of Self-Sacrifice, the epitome of a life forfeit, overlooked the signs of giving up.

His gut coiled uncomfortably remembering his life after Hydra before Steve found him in Romania. Bucky spoke to no one unless absolutely necessary. He bartered to live in a shitty apartment by doing maintenance for the landlord. He helped tenants move their furniture and heavy boxes in and out for a little cash in order to buy food. He rotated between food stalls at different markets so that no one saw him enough to recognize him. Most of his downtime was consumed by writing in notebooks, writing everything he could remember about who he was and what he had done since. At night, he planned his escape if Hydra should find him. He even had three plans for his own termination, if the choice was be captured again or die. That life was what he had ‘woken’ up to, and it was barely a life at all.

Bucky tasted acid at the memory. Bruce remained hunched over the metallic table, steadying his breath.

“So,” Bucky tossed into the silence, “we wait until she wakes up?”

“Yeah,” Bruce threw up his hands, “then what?”

Bucky had no answer for the doctor this time.

* **

Sam heard music in the darkness. Her mouth was unbearably dry, the fibers of her skin and muscle braided tight down the length of her throat. It wasn’t just her head that throbbed, but her whole body felt shrunken, clenched against her skeleton. Her brain was filled with fog and fire.

Sam opened her eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. This was not the tower.

“Hey,” Sam heard off to her right, turning to see a young blond woman rise from a chair against the other wall. “You’re ok.” The infirmary of New York Headquarters was quiet, as it was when she came to wake Sam Wilson, as it was when she recovered from glass cuts and electric burns when she was four. The music was much faster than those times, heavier, full of angst and screaming but at a low volume.

The air in the room: she could feel it flow across her forearms. The sheets beneath her calves, she could feel each fiber of thread. The input of feeling overwhelmed her, and Sam didn’t realize she was squirming until the voice put a firm hand against her stomach.

“Calm down,” a blond girl leaned over her to say, trying to catch her gaze as Sam’s focus shot to place after place in the room. “Samantha, I’m Tandy, and you’re safe here.” The blond placed her other hand against Sam’s forehead. 

“Why—” was all Sam could push through her desert mouth. She gently tensed her abs to hint that she wanted to sit up. She kept looking around until staring only at each tiny feature of the new face. _He used it, didn’t he?_ The words wouldn’t come out. _Missy knew I would need it._ Sam mimicked sticking a needle in her arm and pressing the plunger, hoping the question in her eyes made it clearer.

“Sam, _slow_ ,” Tandy tried, corralling her with skinny little arms. “Do you want me to get the nurse?” The girl stopped Sam before she could hop off the bed, trying to swat the restraining arms away before two lights stopped her.

Her own arm was red-orange and glowing. _So he did use it, and I don’t feel sick anymore. Why do I feel so heavy? Why are Tandy’s hands shining white?_ A gentle peace flowed from Tandy’s arms into Sam. The razor cuts of air against her and the scratch of her throat dulled.

“Are you Extremis, too?”

“No,” Tandy smiled, “something else did this to us.”

Sam’s mind went blank of her questions, filled with the warmth. _How long has it been? A few days? How long did the proliferation take? Where’s my tablet? Phone? Where’s Missy?_

“What do you remember?” Tandy asked calmly, her white hands growing brighter while Sam’s returned to beige.

“I—I fell in the forest.” Tandy soothing touch smothered the fire in Sam’s mind and body, but the fog persisted “I think…”

“You fought a ts-sunami and won. That’s the coolest shit I’ve ever seen.” This was a different voice, deep and forceful, from a young man Sam hadn’t realized was in the corner by the door. He had dark skin that appeared to suck light from the air, out of focus; he smiled, eyeing Tandy and Sam in amusement. He reminded Sam of Lucas for a moment, but then, when the light faded from both the girls, he approached, and Sam saw a face lit with a genuine kindness.

“That’s Cloak,” Tandy said smiling.

“Tyrone,” the boy corrected, and his face came into focus without the odd bending of light. “She’s-s Dagger.”

Tandy stepped back towards the door, pausing her music. “Would you like to move to your room now? Or you wanna get some food with us?”

Without Tandy’s soothing touch, Samantha felt her throat squeezing, parched. “Water,” she croaked out, “would be good.”

At a table in the large atrium outside the small, residence kitchen, Tandy regaled Sam with a slew of stories the rigorous training from Parker, Rogers, and Maximoff. They were nervous about training with Romanoff now that Nat had returned from China. Sam, for her part, noticed that the tables were no longer as shiny white as when she was very young, when the plastic was new, and there were some chips in the paint around the tall windows. The light seemed harsher, piercing. She sipped, gulped, then chugged four glasses of water before uttering a word.

Tandy could control emotions with direct physical contact, which is what she did to Sam in the infirmary, and was working on throwing, aiming, what she described as Light Daggers. Sam could practically hear Uncle Peter’s exclamations of awe; he still called things ‘lit’ from time to time, so he was likely having a field day commenting on his young protege’s power. ‘Cloak’ referenced Tyrone’s ability to teleport inside a cloud of darkness, absorbing light and energy from around him. This was why he appeared darker and out of focus in a well-lit room; he could legitimately hide in the smallest shadow. Tandy described him as ‘the ultimate stealth operative.’ Tyrone said nothing of this himself and watched Sam for a long while before turning to listen to Tandy, a girl alive with excitement. When they started discussing ‘the wave’ and what that meant Sam could do, however, his interest became apparent with his sudden focus on Sam’s response.

“I don’t remember,” Sam shrugged, aware of Tyrone deflating in disappointment. “I’m not kidding. The last thing I remember is falling over in the woods. Pretty sure that was…March first?” She didn’t say why she was in the woods, or what she did to Bucky’s arm on February 28th to sear the date in her mind. She thought she could see a sunset, or a sunrise, when she closed her eyes to think about it, but beyond a flash of sky behind leaves was a horrible ringing in her ears. Sam wanted Missy, who would have wiped her drives by now and scattered. She had to find her.

“Well, today is the sixteenth,” Tandy bubbled.

“Jeez, was I in a coma? Did my body try to reject Extremis?” There was a general clearing of throats in response, as if Sam’s dry mouth had spread.

“Of April.” Tyrone assessed Sam again. It made her feel as if she were expected to break apart in front of him. Sam defied Tyrone’s expectations by remaining calm on the outside. She blinked but didn’t speak right away.

After her pause, Sam took a deep breath and sighed. “Well, I’m in wild need of a coffee then.” _And a couple of shots of whisky couldn’t hurt…_

Tandy laughed, jumping up to get Sam whatever she wanted.

* * *

These new friends were like nothing Samantha had ever known. They were close to her age, closer than any of the Bartons; they were being trained as Avengers, so they didn’t need Sam’s name to gain anything; and they never judged her for what she didn’t know. Because this whole ‘world of the professional Avengers’ was new to all three, everything was a bonding experience. Sam didn’t recognize most of the music they played or movies and shows they loved, but she was open to whatever they wanted to do. She knew zero celebrities, except for her obvious uncles and aunts. After that first day, they never mentioned Tony Stark unless Sam did first, which was rare. Sam usually went very quiet when she was about to recount a story involving her dad, a mixed look rolling over her features then vanishing. She wanted to talk about him, but when she tried, Sam suddenly became a twelve-year-old girl again, the great Iron Man awkwardly standing over her, uninterested in anything she said. Sam wanted to feel good when she spoke of her father which meant she didn’t speak of him.

Luckily, Tandy and Tyrone favored making new memories, too, so her jealous, aging beauty queen mother, and his best friend shot by a Boston cop were also not discussed, nor how they became…special. Sam only found out those tidbits of their pasts while she searched for traces of Missy online. She searched as secretly and thoroughly as she could but had found nothing after weeks. It was a long process to hide what she was doing amongst genuine searches related to her training.

Sam was tentatively mapping server locations where Missy may have pinged when her friend blurted, “can I cut your hair?” Tandy idly messed with Sam’s unkept regrowth. She hadn’t touched it since waking on the floor in Massachussetts after first injecting herself. “You’ve got a ducktail going back here, and it’s not exactly flattering,” the blond coaxed.

“Whatever you want, Dee,” Sam mumbled, lulled by the gentle touch in her hair. She hadn’t had a haircut in over a year, back when Annie insisted on a salon day for her bridesmaids. The incessant, high-pitched laughter, the gossip, and the roar of a dozen dryers had taken all of the pleasure out of someone massaging her scalp.

“Hear that, Ty? Sam trusts me with her hair.”

“You’re s-s-still not touching mu-mine.” Tyrone flipped through some news articles while eating cereal, his favorite afternoon snack. They also didn’t discuss his stutter.

Tandy’s frown was audible, even from the behind Sam’s head, and Sam smirked. She enjoyed their banter, all day, everyday.

“Sam, you wanna wet your hair for me? I’ll get scissors,” Tandy said to perk herself back up. “Come on.” Her gaze shot back playfully to Tyrone. “Don’t choke on your Fruit Loops while we’re gone. No one will save you.”

Tyrone brandished his middle finger on his spoon hand. He didn’t look up.

The girls headed off to Sam’s room, since Tandy’s was farther down the hall.

“Not that you have to,” Tandy started as they bounced along, “but you might want to take a full shower. You’re a bit ripe after today’s training.”

Sam laughed anyway. Only Tandy could critique her while making Sam happier. “Yeah, you don’t have to be a jerk about it.”

“But you’re a punk who needs my help,” Tandy saluted Sam and excitedly trotted down the hall.

The door took her handprint, a newer feature. The tiny twin bed inside cradled the same watercolor blotched comforter Sam slept under since she was four. She took it to the Barton’s originally, but by eight years old, she abandoned it here at Christmas. Thirteen, the year after Sam chose Mistress as a present, that was the year Nat stopped decorating her room with lights. True to form, no one had touched it but her since. The comforter was worn thin, the corners threadbare, but it felt familiar when nothing else, not even her own body, did.

Sam kept the habit of owning little clothing from her time in Wakanda, though the clothes were not as baggy on her now she ate whole foods. She’d never exercised so much in her life. Since no fighter in the building trusted her to attempt using her new abilities, Bruce proposed Samantha’s more ‘human’ abilities be developed and tested. She spent her mornings running while Big Sam watched and timed her increasing speed and endurance. It didn’t matter that she _could_ do it; she hated running all the same. Afternoons were hand-to-hand combat with Natasha, a particularly humbling experience since Sam could not think of anyone she was more afraid to hit. Nat may have stopped visiting her in the hospital three years ago, but that anger did not translate to stupidity. They don’t name you Black Widow for nothing.

Sam flopped a change of clothes onto the bed and popped into the shower, leaving the bedroom door open for Tandy to come back in. She hap hazardously scrubbed and rinsed, never much caring about the relaxing effects of washing. Sam had spent so many hours ‘relaxing’ in a regeneration cradle full of nutrient gel, she could do with never relaxing again. She was quick to throw on a towel and swing open the bathroom door simply to move on to fun with Tandy, but she was no longer alone. It wasn’t Tandy who’d come in though.

“I knocked, but the door…” Bucky Barnes stood looking around her room, and while she’d seen him since waking up, he had never been inside her personal living space.

Sam stumbled over the small lip at the bathroom threshold, knocking her shoulder on the doorframe. A corner of her towel fell, and in her attempt to grab the falling fabric, she clenched the wrong end, lifting the bottom of her towel up high enough for half of her backside and chest to hang out.

“Holy shit,” she exclaimed, shutting her eyes as hard as she could pinch them, awkwardly hunching to push as much fabric over her as possible. She thought she heard him say “you’re okay,” but the damage was already done. Sam’s glow of shame spread to her left arm, the only appendage not reinforced with vibranium, igniting the terry cloth towel she held tight. She tried not to pay attention, to hum something soothing and back into the bathroom with some semblance of dignity but to no avail. Her unexpected guest ripped the smoking fabric from her body and started stamping it out on her bedroom floor.

Bucky pressed something silky against her arm. Sam clamped her arms across herself and cracked a single eye open, hoping she wouldn’t light the whole room on fire.

“Brought you something. Figured you’d need it.” Bucky’s eyes were glued to the floor. He held out a slinky looking jumper of navy blue material. It touched her skin but still felt cool.

Sam snatched it, slamming the door between them.

“Banner found this fabric in the Baxter building after the Four…” he yelled through the wall before clearing his throat. “Human Torch needed clothing that wouldn’t burn up, and Bruce figured so do you.”

She took the time she spent squeezing into the legs of the leotard to calm down. “Does this mean I get to train for real? Seriously?” Excitement replaced embarrassment until she had a thought.“Wait—you knew I’d burn my—”

“Yes, but I didn’t see anything.” When Sam threw open the door again, he rushed to the hallway door, eyes still turned down.

“What?” The elephant sitting on Sam’s chest shifted pressure to her stomach. She felt a little sick.

Bucky didn’t turn around but must have felt guilty enough to offer his best attempt at an explanation. “Bruce knows the temperature you can reach when you—he calls it Deregulate, but I—you were covered in mud. I saw nothing in Wakanda. Promise.”

In her terror, Sam sensed more was required to embarrass the Winter Soldier. “But…”

“But…I had to carry you back,” he softly admitted. Then Bucky changed the subject abruptly, adding, “your training starts with me tomorrow, and we’re going out. We’re starting slow.”

Sam’s cheeks caught fire, or might as well have. She was grateful Bucky still faced away. The tall, dark haired behemoth at her bedroom door just admitted to carrying her around naked while she was unconscious, then he chose the worst possible wording for his follow-up statement. She couldn’t process all the implications at that moment.

“Meet at the garage at six,” Bucky said, opening the door. “I know you’re not a morning person, but we have a ways to drive.” With one last look directly at Sam, he added with a smirk, “no bikes. Promise.”

Sam vaguely recognized the Boy Scout’s honor sign in the hand he raised but was too shocked to care. Tandy stood outside, eyes indiscreetly wide.

The blond giggled before she shut the door. “Oh, there’s a story there,” she squeaked. The blond’s eyes landed on the new outfit, adding, “and this is…hideous.” Tandy’s immense disappointment released in a dramatic sigh. “At least Ty has some fashion sense. He would never give you this to wear. Why the hell would you need something so unflattering?” Tandy tossed her own hair back in distain before brandished her comb and scissors, smiling.

Sam stood slack-jawed, unable to answer. Her mind raced to recall any poorly worded comments she might have let slip in subsequent conversations she and Captain Barnes had since their return stateside, but nothing stood out. He was perfectly friendly, he never looked at her strangely, and so it seemed to matter very little to Bucky personally that he had…done that. Sam concluded he was mostly sparing her the embarrassment of flaring off her clothing again, this time in front of people who might not be as indifferent. _That’s…nice, I suppose. He’s a nice guy…to everyone._

“Sam, you ok? You look pretty pale.” Tandy handed her the fresh clothes she’d set on her bed, subtly nudging her to get out of the fashion faux-pas of the tight onesie.

 _Certainly not alright._ “Yup, just tired from the run.” She strategically layered the regular clothes over the flame-retardant fabric. She no longer questioned why they had babied her interactions so far; Sam was a hazard until she could properly control herself.

“Sit down,” Tandy demanded happily, “we’ll get coffee and show you off after.”

 _Not nearly as much as I just showed off._ Sam lamented no longer having Missy as her personal security system. Missy would never have let this happen.


	26. Capacity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony pays his daughter's debt to Namor and finds out some of what happened in the process.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX—April 2039

 _I do not want to die here. I will not die out here,_ Tony repeated again, watching Namor emerge onto the tiny island beach with a fresh catch of kelp in hand, and for once, a surprise of actual fish. As a super human, Namor understood very little about nutritional requirements for ‘surface-dwellers.’ Protein from fish was a treat that night.

Tony had never gone that long in space. Now on Earth, he felt pummeled towards the ground at all times. His muscles struggled; his lungs grew tired. ‘One step at a time’ became a mantra he repeated over and over. Namor, surprisingly, allowed Tony his time to physically recuperate as long as his mind remained in spitfire condition, which was no easy task while cut off from radio contact on a remote island.

The buoyancy in the water helped. His muscles needed the rest. Tony abhorred eating in front of Namor, the challenge being to lift the weight of the food and repetition of minute motion without any aid from his suit, but the King of Atlantis seemed unimpressed by Iron Man’s shaking hands or slow rehabilitation in normal gravity.

Friday used low-power mode to ignite the pile of wood he’d assembled then minimized his suit for his daily physical therapy, using his own muscles instead of his iron-aid. His initial fear of dying due to dehydration evaporated when Namor summoned clean fresh water out of nowhere into a stone jug solely for Tony, but the island fruit, kelp, and odd fish diet left much to be craved. However, he was alive. Score one for Tony.

“This mother fish had a good life, and I feel you will appreciate her death so you may live.”

 _Yes, old lady fish sounds scrumptious._ “I do appreciate it—her sacrifice,” he replied instead, “thank you.”

Unlike many other nights, Namor joined Tony by the fire, staring into the flames, the stars obscured by thick clouds. Tony would never get even the simplest signal through that mess.

Every so often, Friday caught a transmission from Banner at HQ, but this pathetically remote, square-mile island couldn’t consistently ping any satellite. If Tony got Friday to boost the signal, he risked lowering his power supply. Namor had made it clear that he should be prepared to leave at any moment if the King received word of Tigershark, and Tony did not want to be stuck deep in the ocean, fighting water-breathers, when his O2 level went critical with little power. Within the last two weeks, there had been three sightings, but the pair had arrived too late.

Tony flipped the fish on the hot stone inside the flame, nibbling on yesterday’s dried kelp.

This was the first time in recent memory that Namor stayed top-side long enough for his hair to dry, curling gently around his ears. Despite the appearance of black locks and black eyes, when dressed with sufficient light on dry land, both were more chestnut, not so different from Tony’s before his hair had gone gray, before he started dying it back darker to stop references to ‘salt and pepper.’ Tony felt close to a panic attack every time someone uttered that phrase.

“I recognize him now,” Namor tossed into the fire. “I know why Tigershark came to Atlantis.”

Tony’s interest peaked though the king decided to extend the drama of reminiscing over a dance of gold and ember. He coaxed the seaman on, “and…”

“Todd Arliss, the sniveling, arrogant, swimmer from your country, regularly swam feats of endurance across unsafe waters. He caused dozens of other, weaker swimmers to attempt the same and fail. For months, areas of the seas were littered with bodies of men, women, and some children who died trying to emulate Arliss, yet he continued. One particular day, during some sort of human warrior show, a boy fell off a ship. That idiot Arliss stopped a professional team from rescuing the boy. He believed his show of strength was worth more than a minute of breath for the boy dying in the water,” Namor scowled while reciting his tale. “I sent a current to stop him. I snapped his spine against the ship and kept the boy afloat until a real rescue team came for them both. I should have drowned that fool.”

Tony remembered that feeling of regret so vividly. “So you made a demon and he haunts you. Been there.”

“You did. You made him, and now you know what—”

He forgot his cover. “Okay, first of all,” Tony blurted, too hungry and tired to hold his tongue, “I didn’t do anything to or for Arliss. That pompous—” He caught himself. “I’ve never met him, but I am partly, indirectly responsible for the technology that was stolen to change him, maybe. And second, he could not have become a water-breathing mutant on his own. We need who he’s working with. That’s the real evil.”

Namor considered Tony’s words without moving.

“Third,” Tony started again more calmly this time, “let’s review what we know.” _Which would be a lot easier if I could talk to Banner. This is one of those times where listening would come in handy._ If he hadn’t been off-world for so long, he would know the lay of the land better. “Actually, what do we know?”

“Tigershark—Arliss is not intelligent enough to do this alone. If you did not transform him, who did? No being in the ocean would dare give him that power.”

“If I could be on land, _civilization_ land to speak to—” but Tony was stopped by the blazing eyes that met his.

“You will pay your debt, Stark.”

“Yes, but we need info. So bad guy on land needs to be tracked as we do _on land._ The fish haven’t produced any bubbles of wisdom have they?” Namor bristled, but Tony kept going. “Let me do this my way, and we can both get what we want,” he slapped the cooked fish onto a different rock to cool, “and some fries would be great.”

* * *

Honestly, Tony was relieved that things progressed so quickly once he and Friday had access to what Banner and the team knew. He may not have had much time to chit-chat about, say, Sam, but that would have proved a distraction and possibly ruined the advantage of their freshest intel. Banner always had a way with tracking energy signatures; Tony called it ‘romancing the wave.’

Knowing the previous places Tigershark had been in the last weeks, Banner tracked anomalous weather buoy movement around coasts to narrow the mutant’s landfall location. From there, lacking social media or conspiracy theory postings about a shark out of water, he found city sewer plans for runoff pipes, dismissed pipes too small for a man-sized shark to wiggle through, and produced a short-list of convenient spots, such as abandoned warehouses or sparsely populated neighborhoods. Tony had never been so grateful for the well-oiled, well-funded machine that was his team.

Namor loathed hunting on land, or spending any significant stretch out of the water. Tony loathed following a scantily-clad water-dude around. The man needed a super swimsuit with a lot more coverage, even climbing out of the tropical waters in between Belem and Sao Luis, Brazil. They didn’t have far inland to go and only four suspicious locations.

Incidentally, the first location was correct, which left the two shocked and off balance when the door to the condemned building flew off its crooked hinged. The rusted metal smacked Tony’s suit in the jaw, making a toe-curling scraping noise all the way up the helmet.

Tony’s visual feed flickered. “Wild guess, we found ‘em.”

The once golden-haired Olympian emerged tall, now crowned by a sharp protruding fin atop his skull, ribbed faintly up the back as if an extension of his spine. The taut, thick gray skin covering his body peeled away at his mouth to reveal three rows of tiny razor teeth. Arliss was disgusting, but Tony’s brain managed to focus on picking apart anatomical pieces of Tigershark’s mutant puzzle. The man-creature rushed Tony with two outstretched arms tipped with heavily webbed fingers and thick nails.

A muffled, high-pitched scream rang out from the open doorway. Namor bolted inside, leaving Tony with a ravenous monster from the deep lunging toward him.

The flat jaw chomping at his face, squared to accommodate the extra teeth, and when Arliss opened the wide mouth, the tongue was shrunken towards the back, perhaps no longer used at all. Tony knew this because he clamped his Iron hands against each end of his mouth while Todd, who retained most of the heavy, streamlined muscles of a swimmer physique, latched around Tony’s waist.

Tony wondered whether Sam had seen Todd like this and if she’d been scared. Had they threatened her to help them? Hurt her? Perhaps they lied, and Sam had no intention of turning a man into this…thing. His boot thrusters forced them off the ground a few feet, and without traction from his slippery, gray skin and partial wet suit, Tigershark began to slide. Tony forced the legs of his suit to flip up and around in a slingshot arch that slammed the foreign weight dangling from his thrusters to the ground.

The transformation must have added flexibility to Arliss’s bones. He slithered upright with teeth bared again.

“Namor,” Tony called. “You wanna crack at this guy or what?” Tigershark was gone by the time he turned back around. “Shit,” Tony mumbled. While he tracked the low body temperature of the retreating mutant, his display warned of more than just Namor and his betrothed inside. “Friday, send a heat-seeker, and a track-dart for good measure.”

“Yes, Boss.”

Inside, Namor battered his trident against a series of cage doors, two doors in and tied up laythe prone, gagged, blue-skinned body of a slippery-suited woman. Tony made quick work blowing the locks between Namor and Dorma until something far stronger blew him against the opposite wall. _Right, Beach Boy doesn’t know how to_ _secure a damn building_. Good news for now, nothing was broken.

A tall, slender, middle aged man with a fierce widow’s peak, in a white lab coat flaunted a comically giant gun, one heavy enough to require both hands and balancing on his hip. Namor had gotten a strike in; the white coat bore a slice across the chest, red at the frayed edges. He waltzed right past the Atlantean king. Sparks zapped across the gun’s wide muzzle. _Energy weapon, origin unknown_. Friday searched for analysis.

“Welcome, Mr. Stark,”the creepy doctor, _assuming from the clothing_ , drawled in a thick accent. “I’ve been dying to know. How is our Harvard girl?”

Tony cocked an eyebrow, but Iron Man’s face gave nothing away.

“I was pleased to hear that moron of a king not only failed to kill her, but that my gift has borne the fruit of—”

“Your what now?” Tony half-listened, aiming a bullet at a tiny spot away from the power source and the magazine within. He didn’t want to blow the whole place with a bad shot. “Look if ‘gift’ is a euphemism for,” an Iron arm swung past his crotch, “then you’ll have to book with a different therapist. Freud is available in hell on Tuesday. Please see the assistant.” Tony pointed, firing a small-caliber to disable the triggering system.

The doctor’s gun died, sputtering an electric swan-song before dropping. His target remained unfazed by the loss of his weapon, and less fazed still by Namor bolting out to the sea with Dorma in his arms.

The doctor grabbed his chest wound. “Oh, please, Stark. Do you really not know? Are you that out of touch?” The bright white of his smile stood out against dark features.

Tony ignored him, dispatching two magnetic cuffs at Dorcas’s wrists. He recognized the face now, vaguely, from when Agent Hill handed him a file in a room above the Earth. Doctor Lemuel Dorcas, known associate of Harvard professor Simon Marshall. _Sam? She really met Tigershark? She really is mixed up in all this._

“I’ll give you a hint,” the doctor continued, “What burns at 3000 degrees Celsius? What could stop a tsunami?”

This guy was the link, the connecting puzzle piece. _The glow in Bucky’s arm. Sam has Extremis. Sam is infected with Extremis? No broken bones, no healed fractures._

The toothy grin shifted in thought. “You know, in a way, I have supported young Samantha’s development more than you yourself have. Does that make me a better father?”

Tony grasped Dorcas by the throat, but the doctor wouldn’t stop talking, spitting a few drops of blood with every few words.

“You fathered her, yes, but I gave her a way to leave you behind. I made her what she is now.”

Tony’s helmet popped open. “The hell you are—”

Spit flew red. “I gave her what she needed.”

“You gave her a virus. You made her sick.” Tony shook Dorcas, pulling against the magnetic restraints.

“I saw her potential, and I encouraged it,” Dorcas gurgled a laugh. “We helped her. Sam has friends now.”

“You sick son of a bitch, _you_ put her in danger,” Tony screamed so close to Dorcas’s face he could rupture an eardrum, “now I’m gonna put you in the ground.” Iron Man fired a blast from his palm straight into the doctor’s stomach. “Slowly. Painfully.” He released his grip on the man’s throat and let the body drop to the floor like a wet sack of potatoes.

Dorcas slumped against the metal cage bars, hands high and pulled at unnatural angles by the cuffs. His gurgling stopped, and Tony left him there to die.

* * *

Tony’s ears rang. A sharp pain stabbed him behind the eyes. His head throbbed. There was no sign of Tigershark aside from a tracker inside a chunk of flesh which appeared to be bitten off. Tony dutifully returned to the beach. He did not go back into the water. No one was around.

His mind turned over and over, his idea of his daughter being rewritten by the second. Child? No. Harvard? Not that type of student. His? He wouldn’t have done this. Would he?

The truth stung him deep inside. Tony absolutely had done it. He put toxic metal into his body, told no one he was dying, injected untested trackers under his skin, instigated a genocidal robot that almost wiped out the planet. He had done all of it in the hopes no one else would have to hurt; that was the lie he told himself. The motivations muddled and shifted: because it helps others, because you can, because it’s cool, sounds fun, challenges you, doesn’t challenge you, makes you impressive, saves lives, puts someone out of business, embarrasses someone. Vanity tied with charity in a bow. Philanthropy, indeed.

Tony watched the water with unseeing eyes.

“If I were an observant man, I would think you had an investment in this beyond my threat.” Namor returned to stand beside him. When Tony didn’t reply, the king relinquished, “go home, Stark. You have paid your debt.” Namor walked back to the surf, diving smoothly beneath the foaming crests.

“No, I haven’t,” Tony whispered to himself. His helmet shot back up over his face. “Friday, we’re going to headquarters.”

“Flight plan established.” The suit and Tony left the beach.

“Show me all files on Samantha Stark.”

“Yes, Boss. What year would you like to start with?”


	27. Pigeons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samantha learns a little more about her power at the Rogers' home.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN—April 2039

Without coffee, Sam did not recall why her alarm clock went off so damn early. She could not remember the previous day’s embarrassment at all until squeezing a leg into Johnny Storm’s jumpsuit. _Why the hell would a man wear something this tight?_ Sam hoped training today involved punching something she was less afraid of than Natasha because she was poised to wail out frustration on something flammable. Tandy spoke of her required ‘discharges’ of Lightforce if she hadn’t used power for a long period of time; Sam wondered if this was the same thing. Maybe her body was just antsy with pent-up energy? Maybe it had nothing to do with Bucky himself? She hoped.

Out on the lawn, travel cup in hand but not enough caffeine in her veins, scarfing the last bite of a croissant sandwich down, Sam walked sloppily towards a car in the drive. A small kit of pigeons pecked between the gravel at the corner of the lawn. Sam kept shuffling forward expecting the birds to scatter as she neared, but in her morning haze, it slowly dawned on her that they didn’t move. Her foot stopped less than an inch away from one’s foot. She stared curiously.

The birds took flight simultaneously aimed at her body. Startled, Sam raised her hands to her face, tossing her mug aside, and falling back onto the drive. The squeaking noise that erupted in her shock was followed by a snickering laugh across the lawn. Big Sam stood in his sweats, arms crossed over his heart, cackling.

“Your face,” Wilson breathed through joyous belly laughs, “priceless.”

Sam wasn’t hurt, save her pride and liquid lucidity. _Option #1 for punching: Big Sam._ She grabbed her half-spilled tumbler off the ground, frowning, but thankful that she had not worn her white sweatshirt as she dusted off. Bucky stood by the car, holding out a peace offering of more coffee and failing to hide his own smile. Sam got into the car, thinking _Option #2 within arm's length._

Trailed by various soaring friends, Big Sam waved Sam and Bucky on as he completed his run before training the teens. His pace was slow but steady, his salt and pepper hair glittered in the dawn light. Samantha tilted her forehead to rest against the window of the outlandish, dark green, custom Ferrari Bucky had chosen from Tony’s garage. Bucky must have done something right to convince Tony to give him access to his ‘babies.’

Sam drank some of the new tumbler then wiggled it into the holder. “How long is the drive?”

“Over an hour, when I go the speed limit,” Bucky smirked, energized by their little prank. When Sam didn’t reply, he shifted his eyes from the road to her, his nub of a ponytail gently scratching against the leather headrest. “It looks nice,” Bucky tried, making a waving gesture over a shoulder with his free hand.

Trying to put a shine on early hours with a compliment of her haircut was not going to work.

“I hate you,” Sam grumbled before shoving her hands into her kangaroo pocket and nodding back off against the pane of passing trees.

Bucky smiled again.

* * *

Sharon adjusted Sam’s shoulders and feet. “Try it like you’re shooting.”

Sam hit zero of the stationary targets set 50 feet out, facing away from the Rogers’ classic farmhouse home outside of…where? Sam had no knack for domestic geography. She wanted desperately to be fantastic at this. Instead, her showing so far was truly pathetic. All that came forward from her palm was a wide spit of flame that launched Sam backward into the grass.

Her coach returned to her side. “Ok, describe to me what you’re doing.”

They wanted her to fire a blast of energy that maintained inertia across the rich green field from her left arm, of course, which was not her dominant. She was having to mentally adjust the few aiming lessons of her life to the other side, and she felt overwhelmed and stupid for not picking this up immediately. She was good at a plethora of things, all sorts of subjects, but not this. Sam’s analytic mind reeled, rushing through physics calculations and velocities and impacts and force and speed. Equations were much easier on paper. Or when Missy helped. This was Sam, alone, with an audience of professionals. It should have been her dream, what she’d worked for this whole time. It made her sweaty instead…or would have if she could still sweat.

“I’m…aiming like drawing the bow back.”

Sharon laughed at herself. “Right, shooting arrows, with Clint." She rounded on her heels, remarkably spry for a woman in her fifties. “Bucky, give me your weapon.”

The resistance to the tug of the assault rifle from his chest let Agent 13 know just how possessive the soldier was of his comforts. Nobody ever fired it except Bucky unless some bizarre happenstance prevented him from maintaining and cleaning it himself. Steve couldn’t stop the curl of his lips.

“Just for a moment,” Sharon comforted, “I promise, I just need to demonstrate kickback. This is the most equivalent size. Pretty please?”

Bucky relinquished.

Sharon gingerly cradled Bucky’s metal baby in her arms, stifling a laugh, until she was back by Sam’s side. She positioned the girl’s hands, shoulder, and the angle of her hips. “I’m expecting this to knock you over, so prove me wrong, yeah?” Sharon lowered her voice to barely a whisper, adding, “I know you can impress them.” She winked before shifting to stand behind Sam. “Tiny burst towards the targets, just so you can feel the force and correct. Just one, or Bucky will have a heart attack.”

Sam’s breath caught as she lifted the heavy weapon, afraid of falling on her ass, so she dug her heels in for balance and concentrated. She could feel something summoned inside by her focus, a tendril of steel reinforcing her arm, strengthening her shoulder socket. She practiced a one-count in her mind in an attempt to automate the timing in case the kickback overwhelmed her. Her finger gave a tentative squeeze.

The tat-tat-tat of gunfire startled her even when she expected it. Her feet did not falter until after the firing stopped, but then she stumbled back, unable to shift her balance forward against the punch of the butt into her pectoral.

“Goddamnit,” she mumbled.

“Not bad,” Sharon whispered with a pat on Sam’s shoulders, calling “You can have it back now!”

Bucky hovered a foot away and grabbed the gun back faster than Sam could release her hands. Sam had the distinct feeling she had managed to defile something precious to him, but he was gone before she could apologize or thank him for allowing it. Sharon wasted no time. “That’s the kind of thing happening inside your body—best guess—so I want you to prepare, to push back so that your balance aids your aim. Alright?”

Sam’s face betrayed her terror. Sharon put her arm around Sam, putting her body in the way of the men. “Sam, think of it as you are the bowstring, you are what pushes the bullet forward. Sorry, mixed metaphors, but you are absolutely smart _and_ strong enough to produce the different velocity and distance shots I’m asking for…plus I’d rather you learn to take down targets when they are far away rather than up close. This will technically make you good at both, and you’ll get stronger by producing and aiming different forces.”

Sam sagged a corner of her mouth in response but nodded. Her heart raced as Sharon walked away, leaving the impression of a demolition expert unspooling a cord to distance herself from dynamite. Missy’s voice quoted mathematical possibilities in her head. It made Sam focus on the problem at hand, in her hand. _So my body is a weapon now. Release the safety, feel the balance, and control to discharge…that’s shit soldiers say, right?_ Her eyes focused on the red center of rings but didn’t fire. Her eyes, she noticed, shifted focus as if a solid tunnel formed between her and the spot; the closer her field of vision got to the tiniest of spots, the hotter she felt.

Sam raised her arm. Every cell produced a tiny wave of energy, little ripples bouncing around, magnified when they hit the echo pad of her vibranium skin. She willed the little echos to converge to her left palm, and they did exactly as they were told. Behind her ears came a high ringing like the charge before Iron Man’s blast. Something methodical took over. Her periphery shut down. The game was an experiment; Sam needed the results. It was that simple. She made mental notes…that she couldn’t share with Missy. The ringing peaked. She fired off like a snapped rubber band, a bright whip of fire racing from her outstretched palm.

Sam did not puncture the target—she blew the whole thing sky high.

“What the hell,” Bucky shrieked.

Steve beamed with pride, but his eyebrows raised high in surprise anyway.

Sharon clapped after a split-second of shock. “Great, and now we’re gonna reign it back in a bit.”

Sam’s first-ever shit-eating grin spread ear to ear across her face.

* * *

Sam smiled all through lunch; she didn’t even mind the other three chatting as if she wasn’t there. She had no notion of what they were saying anyway. At some point, after Sam inhaled her pot roast and salad, Sharon turned to discuss her burgeoning plan to fully train Sam.

Sharon Rogers was engaging and kind, but Agent 13, the professional, dived back in with precision and intensity, convinced that she had relevant footage to help Sam train.

“No, no,” Sharon insisted, “the DVDs are in the garage. I know they are.”

Steve shook his head. “The player doesn’t even work anymore.”

Unhappy to see her trainer deflate, Sam offered to help. She fixed the Bartons’ stuff all the time back when she lived there.

Sharon rushed to gather everything, dropping the hardware off at the table with Sam and her husband before disappearing again to search the garage. Bucky excused himself to set up the afternoon’s exercises.

While Sam worked, Steve stared out the window watching Bucky work and then shifting to watch her. Sam assumed he didn’t want to talk until he blurted, “I chose to be changed, too, back in ’43.”

Sam barely raised her chin, intent on her task, and clueless as to what he meant.

Steve started swirling his tea around in the cobalt blue tumbler. “I’ll give you the same advice I was given. Remember who you are. That doesn’t change simply because you can do more.”

Sam had no idea what prompted his concern, but it felt out of place with their current circumstance. “You mean, stay the girl born into technology so I can repair some old fart’s video system?” Sam smiled in jest.

Steve couldn’t help but smile back. “You’ve been hanging around Cloak and Dagger too much.” He knew Sam would never have spoken to him like that a year ago because it was familiar and playful, friendly for once. “You like it, admit it,” he added, grabbing away one of the little tools Sam had set down only to watch her fling her hand out in offense.

“Give,” she demanded.

He handed the screwdriver back. “I meant that sometimes when people have the ability to do something, they tend to think they _must_ , that they have to use power. You don’t have to, you understand?”

Sam tinkered for another moment. Steve sipped his tea, thinking that the task before her did not require such an intensely dark expression.

“Sir, I wasn’t anybody before this,” Sam started slowly, “not to you or anyone else. I was given everything, and I was still nothing. So pardon me for enjoying being noticed, whether it’s because I can blow stuff up or because I can fix things.”

Bucky and Sharon returned before Steve could protest. Sam tightened the casing she’d replaced and triumphantly trotted to the living room.

“Perfect.” Sharon followed Sam. “Let’s set up while Bucky tries to clean my dishes without breaking anything.”

“Sharon,” Steve warned, hanging his head.

“Or twenty bucks…for interest added.”

“You said 15.99,” Bucky quoted, gathering plates, “and I would rather be blown up.”

Steve snorted, waving his hand forward. “Sam. Sick ‘em.”

“I’m not a dog. You’re the golden boy. Let’s make sure this plays,” she finished, turning into the den, “I promise I won’t set your house on fire.”

“I know you won’t, sweetheart.” Sharon, jumping forward to her plan, handed over the disc. “But after this, I want us to get back to finding that sweet spot you found with that first target. Everything was in balance, you could see it in your glow.”

Sam crouched down to plug in the cables behind the viz-screen base. “What’d you mean?”

“Well, you know, the Extremis and vibranium, they work against each other or one dominates and you are orange and violet or your skins all a patchwork, but when it all works—” she linked her fingers “—together, you’re basically green. That’s a balance. We need to work on that.”

* * *

Sam’s training in the afternoon was less terrifying when she tested the nuances of her energy strikes. She even shot the Cap Shield out of the sky…once.

Bucky couldn’t explain why Steve got choked up when Sam celebrated by bouncing up and down. _Kid stuff_ , he thought, but while the dark road in front of him zipped under the car, he understood that his friend had no children to teach. Samantha Stark was the only child Steve Rogers had been around from her birth to adulthood, and his friend witnessed her learn something new. Bucky never considered that a bond on its own.

It was a confusing day for Bucky, including the cryptic conversation Steve had with him over the dishes. The talk ended with “Buck, if you don’t even bother to _look_ for the right partner, the dance ends with you alone.” The sentiment was not new, but it came out of nowhere. Bucky remained distracted the whole afternoon while watching ancient footage of himself, Rogers, and the Howling Commandos, clips that Sharon had compiled long ago and refused to embarrass Steve with until she thought it might inspire Sam.

After seeing others go through growing pains, progress never feels as slow and arduous. It worked for Sam, but Bucky hardly paid attention.

“I see why they live like that,” Sam chirped, breaking the silence of the ride back to HQ, “it’s peaceful. No people around.” She’d continued her great mood all day.

“Yeah, nice to be secluded,” Bucky replied softly. Why was what Steve said bothering him that much?

When Sam made no further comment, his eyes focused back on the road, and the silence descended again. Bucky’s mind wandered to the distinction between children and adults for a time. He certainly felt his own innocence die with his father, having already grown up without a mother, but he remembered moments at Lehigh when recruits would befriend him. He knew, even at thirteen, the difference between being treated with respect or as a naive brat. He’d known then, and he was nowhere near as smart as Sam at that age. Why did he associate her joy negatively with youth? Why did he think Sam acted childish and unprofessional for celebrating a successful day? _Hell, most of my training consisted of being brutalized until I complied. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone._

A thought popped into his head out of nowhere. “Where did you find the whisky?”

He knocked Sam out of deep contemplation aimed at the window. She raised her brows, tired.

“My gift, thank you by the way, how did you find it?”

“Oh,” she blinked, “my search of your name for information on your arm.” She shoved her hands back into her sweatshirt, adding, “happy belated birthday, by the way.” She was frozen in cryo on the day last month.

Bucky snorted. “I don’t count those anymore.”

Perhaps Sam was too tired to filter her thoughts. “If I were that old, neither would I.”

He tried to suppress a hearty laugh, biting his lower lip, darting his gaze off to the side. His attention turned back to the road quickly, but his smile did not fade right away.

Sam giggled, a new, charming sound. “Did you know that there are fan clubs dedicated to you? It’s actually a little freaky the number of photos they have of you, but there are so many fans of Captain America… They make up all these stories of celebrities you date, or have one-night stands with. It’s weird.”

Bucky scowled, the first one Sam ever saw on him. She had to know this made him uncomfortable, but she kept going.

“I’m just saying you’ve got a big pool of options. Lots of takers. No one should be alo—”

“Would you and Steve mind your own damn business?” Bucky exploded. His blood boiled over in an instant.

Sam’s arms snapped to her sides, eyes as big as half dollars.

“It gets old really fast when you all just blurt out what you think I need—”

“Hey,” Sam yelled back, ”Steve knows you better than any person alive.”

“Then leave me to my life.” His temper wavered. Apparently, she was not angry that he’d snapped at her, but Bucky saying something against his friend, a man not around to defend himself, that crossed a line. Odd. An uncommon response from a teen.

“I’ve—” Sam got quiet while he stewed in irritation. “You’re right. I have no right, but…Tony, without Mom…he’s a shell, and I don’t want you to be a shell.”

Bucky pursed his lips. _That insightful little twerp,_ he grumbled, unwilling to relinquish his anger yet, _she has a point. Is this how Steve feels too?_ He made no reply aloud. He already knew the answer because Bucky heard the same speech year after year.

“Excuse me for not wanting that to happen to anyone else.” Sam let out a huffing sigh and shifted. “How much farther is it?”

“Why do you always ask me about this stuff?” Bucky couldn’t let it go just yet.

“I only asked if you knew about fan clubs, and then you screamed at me. Didn’t hear you screaming at Steve earlier…What did he say?”

“I wasn’t—sorry, I’m sorry.” The apology hardly explained, but this topic needed to die a quick death in his book. On top of all the rest, he kicked himself for ruining Sam’s good mood.

She curled into a ball in the seat. “Whatever. Be an asshole. Just get us home.”

Bucky found it interesting that Sam finally referred to headquarters as ‘home.’ She looked comically adorable when she pouted, but he thought it inappropriate to smile before being forgiven.


	28. Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chaotic homecoming of Tony Stark gets better with a nice breakfast.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT—April 2039

Natasha’s composure faltered during training; Sam had never seen anything like it before. The gorgeous, deadly redhead jumped straight to slapping Sam across the face instead of a momentary stance for both to prepare. Punches flew, and Sam knew the goal was to inflict maximum humiliation. Each blow accentuated Sam’s ineptitude. This continued for forty minutes until a water break. Nat wouldn’t meet her eye. They began again.

“You’re not even improving,” Nat grunted after a kick. “Do you listen to me? Are you trying at all?” Her fists sliced through the air, landing exactly where she intended every time.

Without the chance to reply, Sam fought to stay upright.

The Russian kept coming, viciously complete in shaming Sam until her hand went up.

Sam’s bright orange arm ended an inch from Natasha’s nose, a vivid white spot in the center of her palm. She was sure her opponent felt the radiating heat.

“Why is it so bad if I don’t want to hurt you?” Sam panted.

Nat stood up straight. “You’ll learn. Defense isn’t about being passive.” When the light drained out of Sam’s arm, she slapped it away with a sigh. “I need a drink.”

Encouraged by Nat’s self-medicating and her own rebellious teenage spirit, Sam stole three bottles of liquor from the wet bar usually reserved for holiday gatherings, one for each Dee, Ty, and herself. Tyrone suggested celebrating her new training in part because hand-to-hand combat with Romanoff went so poorly. Nat whooped her, and if she still felt that sort of thing, Sam’s backside would be stinging from hitting the mat.

Now, for fun, Tandy and Tyrone sat sprawled on Sam’s beat-up comforter, leaning against the wall with their own bottles of Johnnie Walker and Don Julio. Sam had chosen a lovely bourbon, a brand she’d never seen before, and enjoyed the melting of anxiety while unwinding with friends. Over years of holiday visits, she tracked the level of liquid inside, and Tony had not touched this bottle in that whole time.

Tandy won their race with Big Sam that morning, so she chose their evening activity: face masks. _Dee loves the girly things in life._ Ty and Samantha found it difficult to speak with the drying plaster thick and unyielding, slowly squeezing them after several minutes. They took turns looking as stupid as possible while pouring a swig into their mouths. The joke, however, soured when Tandy accidentally tipped out more tequila than intended, the excess splashing up into her nose. The girl’s sputtering gag was terrible, and she spewed profanity in protest.

Tandy fumed, leaving to wash her own creamy mask off in her own bathroom. Ty and Sam stayed where they were, he flopped on Sam’s bed and Sam spread across the floor, crumbling like statues forgotten in a tomb.

“Do you think this is how Medusa’s victims felt?” Ty’s voice pitched higher, unable to project his deep tones without moving his lips.

Sam touched her cracked cheeks. “Medusa is a mythical f-figure, not historical, so—”

“Don’t be such a stick in the mud,” he mocked while raising thumbs. No laughing with the masks.

“Mud’s a desert now, for sure.” Sam paused for his little snort of acceptance, continuing, “but if someone did have the power to turn you to stone with a look…yeah, this would be phase one.”

“I’m gonna go chisel this off,” Ty proclaimed as he got up to leave, “and check on Dee. Pray she doesn’t stab me.”

Sam saluted his retreat, tilting her nearly empty bottle to inspect the color in her fake window’s moonglow. Irregularities glistened in the light, but they weren’t in the liquid. The base of the glass was etched. Sam lifted the bottle higher to read.

_Thank you for not fainting._

_Love, Pep._

_December 6_ _ th _ _, 2020_

Sam’s mouth went as dry as waking in the infirmary. She drank half of the present Pepper gave Tony to commemorate her own birth. Sam had unwittingly gulped down one of her father’s remaining gifts from his late wife. She dropped her jaw in horror, the pull of dry clay holding her skin tight. Sam shifted, still staring through the bottle when—

“Sam?”

In a single heartbeat, her gut plummeted to Sub-Basement E. Tony Stark stood in her bedroom doorway, a smile quickly distorting into shock.

“Did you…” Only the helmet was retracted from the suit. He remained a massive and bulky presence, mechanically approaching closer to her bed.

“This—” Tony grabbed the bottle from her hand, sighing through a faint tremble of his lip. He shut his eyes to collect his thoughts. “Do you know what I’ve been through to get here? And you’re—” He couldn’t get the words out.

He didn’t have to; Sam knew in that instant how Medusa’s victims felt. Her insides sucked out through a hole in her soul. Disappointment, anger, resentment, recognition, exhaustion, blame, resignation, all flashed and faded into the fine lines around his dark eyes. Tony looked broken and beaten. Sam couldn’t imagine what her face betrayed.

He turned and walked out with the bottle, saying nothing more.

Worse than Sam had ever imagined, her reunion with her father after successfully turning herself into Avenger material consisted of destroying something precious to him, underage drinking, and looking like a flippant child playing with makeup in her filthy room, alone. The embarrassment pushed its way through her empty middle, accentuating her cotton mouth, shoving all the water it could displace out of her eyes. She ran to the bathroom to drown out the sound of her wild sobs with the running tap, splashing the uncomfortable mask off her face. She scrubbed harder and harder to chip it off, convincing herself it hurt, that the mask caused the tears, though she felt nothing.

She curled up on the bathroom floor when her legs finally failed her. On the cold, hard floor, her mind taunted Sam with the statistical possibilities that it would be okay…or it wouldn’t.

* * *

Sam caught him at the not-so-white tables in the atrium early, too early, when the sky outside was still inky blue.

Tony sipped at a massive glass of green juice. Seeing it made her palms clammy. She was four again, unable to hold a glass without breaking it. A different kind of green monster. Overnight, he dyed his hair back to brown, a rich, medium chestnut, wiping out his gray from the last months. No salt and…

Sam clunked two mugs of coffee down at his table harder than she intended. Her heart fluttered. No words came out of her though she tried, shaking her head before rushing back to the kitchen for cream. As she returned, burnt mahogany eyes followed her path, one brow raised.

“Hungover?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “I’m not allowed caffeine yet,” he corrected, tilting the wheatgrass sludge in her direction.

By Tony’s nonchalant, deliberate swig of his own glass, Sam’s disgust was evident. She’d had her fair share of supplemental, liquid food; never again. “Bruce told me. It’s decaf.”

“Ol’ ticker’s not the same without its car battery.” Her father smiled off at the window to a joke she did not understand. _What car battery? His electromagnet was a palladium and badassium arc reactor…_

The sky beyond the window broke into the yellowing haze of dawn. Since Sam had not slept the night before, this didn’t count as ‘waking’ early. _Bucky would call that ‘splitting hairs_.’ In fact, she lied to Tony: Bruce didn’t tell her anything. Sam hacked the feed of Tony’s exam by the doctor, read his recovery recommendations, then watched the security feed of her father returning the special bourbon to its _exact_ spot down at the wet bar. Total, Tony had been in his room for four and a half hours, part of which was spent primping his hair, apparently. Sleeping: not a Stark family strength.

This time, however, watching felt far more personal. This happened in realtime just out of reach, right there in the building, and it was _Sam_ who’d screwed up. All the little speeches she practiced in her head vanished from memory, the newly vacated space analyzing every twitch of his eyes or pulse of his neck. Sam didn’t know how to do this, make someone forgive her, make them proud of her. She proved she could handle this life. _Right?_

Desperate to fill the lingering silence, she settled for the first thing that popped into her brain.

“Watch,” she asked, tipping cream into her cup. Tony turned. “That first color, when milk hits and sinks just below the surface, that’s your eye color.” The contents churned themselves to a shade lighter, hypnotizing him. She tipped another splash into the volume. “And that’s mine.” Sam paused and looked up at him with one corner of her mouth shyly cocked in a smile. “I always wanted to show you that.”

Tony lowered his shoulders slightly, a wave of emotions pushing him away again. Sam sensed his questions.

“There’re a lot of photos and videos of you online, so I’m used to your face,” she trailed off. She trembled when her hands left the cup and struggled to keep her words from offending him.

“I’m—” he cut himself off, covering his mouth with his hand. Finally, he pointed towards the tree line. “That blue just above the tops, those trees by the road,” his voice caught, “that’s your mother’s eye color.”

Sam didn’t move; she blinked, the small, joking smile dying completely, leaving disappointment. “Pep—” he stopped, the name a searing brand on his tongue, “she and I…this was our coffee spot when one of us couldn’t sleep. Mostly me, and you…baby you.” Tony extended his arm, bouncing a finger up and down on the table, his thoughts at war. “We’ve done this before. One time I put my drink in a bottle so you would take yours. You fussed sometimes, as babies do.” He sniffed, watching the sun. Then the whisper, “what did you do, Sam?” Though his words came out soft, his frown spoke a sanctimonious outrage of its own. He reached forward to touch her hand.

Her body twitched in shock, a bubble of familiarity burst. For one brief moment, Sam believed she and her father wanted the same thing.

“I can fix this,” Tony said. “It shouldn’t take long. I mean, I cured your mom of this before. Days, weeks tops.”

With every word, her disgust grew more apparent, and Sam removed her hand from beneath Tony’s. She rose from her chair. “I’m not diseased. I don’t need you to fix me,” she spat, “I formulated this. I designed it to be used.”

“Extremis is dangerous. He was using you to hurt me.” Tony jumped up, too, the chair scraping the concrete.

The thud of a bird rang against the window near them.

“Who used me? I’m not a pawn. I’m actually better now than I was.”

Weak and outraged, Tony puffed his chest out. “Doctor Dorcas, the one who poisoned you.”

“Nobody poisoned me! The only thing Doctor Lem did was hand me a vial.” Sam shoved her finger against her chest. “I researched and tested for months—I saved people—and you don’t get to undo this. I’m not yours to fix anymore. You gave me away.”

“I was protecting you—”

Another bird dove at the window, but the bang only startled Tony for a second. Sam remained unfazed.

“Protecting me from whom? You?”

“Yes,” Tony yelled. “This is a dangerous job. People try to kill me all the time.”

“What do you want then,” she spat back, “a thank you?” Sam’s face turned to stone, her indignation matching his. “Bang-up job. Thank you for abandoning me, Ton—”

“Okay!” Bucky rounded the corner sharply, dressed in sweats and a tank top, pulling headphones out of his ears. ”Everybody calm down.”

Her father pivoted, too weak to jump at the intruder. “You,” Tony huffed, “Is this your version of protecting her?”

“I don’t need his protection,” Sam griped.

“You obviously do.” But Tony rounded back to Bucky. “Couldn’t wait for someone qualified to build you another arm, huh? Had to ask a child?”

Sam lunged with a glowing arm coiled behind her, but Bucky jumped between them first. “I haven’t been a child for years. You have no idea—”

Tony brandished an accusatory finger over Bucky’s shoulder. “No, you have no idea what I have done to—”

“Stop,” Bucky cried, pushing against Sam’s momentum, facing Tony. “I did what I had to, Tony, now back off.”

Tony sprang forward to within an inch of Bucky’s face. “Yeah? You had to? Who ordered a hit on my family this ti—” but he couldn’t finish the thought.Tony’s demeanor cooled as if ice water had been shot through his veins.

Sam stepped away from Bucky. Bucky remained solidly between them.

“I’m tired,” Tony announced, eyes dark and thoughtful. Black coffee, this time. Yet again, he walked away.

Sam’s anger drained out to reveal an emptiness she was not prepared for. After all the possibilities running like plays in her mind, she thought she would be so overwhelmed with emotions. She had gotten two things: the color of her mom’s eyes and her father thinking of her as some dumbass kid. Still, there was nothing, only emptiness. Tony wanted to undo her life’s work, to strip Sam of her uniqueness; she felt nothing. Tony thought she couldn’t handle herself, even though he left her alone in the first place; she felt nothing. Tony knew where she got the virus but wouldn’t ask how she’d manipulated and changed it; the void inside remained cold.

The window seams stretched the first shadows of the day across the concrete floor. Another shadow caught her attention. Sam Wilson, in his running gear, stood to watch from outside on the field, birds at his feet. He pressed a hand against the window, brow furrowed in concern, but his focus wasn’t on her. Samantha turned back to Bucky, who waved Wilson on, flashing an exhausted thumbs up. Wilson jogged off.

Bucky wiped his face, rubbing his eyes, and mussing his grubby hair. “Ok,” he sighed, “well, good morning, I guess.”

“Is this what you consider a good morning?” Sam automatically quipped, mumbling, “I’m never waking up before noon again.”

Bucky yawned, looking back up to her returned blank stare. “Hey, come on,” he comforted, “let’s get breakfast.” He came over to wrap an arm around her shoulders, gently tugging her towards the kitchen.

She turned her head to look over their shoulders at the still steaming coffees on the lonely table. How could it have gone so wrong? Sam planned to wow Tony with her accomplishments, her peace offerings, her humor, but when push came to shove, she snapped right back into the bitterness of her childhood. Her cheeks were chilly; the air conditioning rolled over tears falling unnoticed.

Bucky pulled her into a hug, and Sam felt guilty that her wet face was being cleaned by his shirt. She let herself stand limp in his arms. “It’s okay,” he whispered, “he’s just…” He tucked her beneath his chin.

Sam nuzzled into his chest, irritated by everyone constantly making excuses for Tony Stark. “An asshole,” she replied, loud enough to be heard and for the vibration to be felt against his sternum. _Although, I just called you an asshole two days ago…whoops, sorry, Buck._

By the shifts in his neck above her forehead, Bucky nodded, agreeing then planted a firm, quick kiss on top of Sam’s head. “Food,” he ordered, releasing Sam and shoving her towards the next room.

He made pancakes.

Sam, greatly impressed with this show of skill, watched in fascination as Bucky pulled his hair back before cracking a few eggs to get started. He worked in quiet mostly, whisking, holding his hand just above the skillet to feel the temperature. Sam noticed him use his right hand. Force of habit, presumably. It was the only one he could feel with for most of his life after all.

He drizzled batter from the whisk directly onto the heat. _Laura uses a measuring cup, then she complains about more dishes._ Sam watched him flip the first batch. Bucky methodically added one cake at a time to each plate, back and forth, all equal. He looked perfectly content.

“They weren’t going to let me handle explosive ordinance or weaponry at thirteen—” he planted a bottle of syrup between them “—so I helped in the mess mostly. Not a lot of variety to the menu, but that was ’38 for you.”

“One hundred years ago…”

“Hundred and one,” Bucky corrected, dressing his breakfast. He tested his stack, pleased. “Still damn fine flapjacks.” Sam gave him a confused look with judgmental eyebrows. “Hotcakes?” he tried.

“Pancakes?”

He shrugged. “You don’t like them?”

“It’s not that. Mama Barton would be awed. I was only good at one-to-two ingredient recipes: eggs, roast veggies, grilled cheese sandwiches. Since those are also my favorites, that's all I've got. Not as impressive.”

“No fancy meal you know to wow someone?”

“Am I not impressive on my own?” Sam smirked. “No, I didn’t expect company…ever.” Her face lowered, fork pushing a bite around. She had added only a tiny dollop of syrup, so the plate beneath was too dry for the fluffy texture to move. It just toppled over, mimicking the sag of Sam’s shoulders while she got lost in thought.

Bucky sighed. “I went on a date,” he confessed.

Sam snapped up. “What? Last night?”

“Just drinks. Sharon set it up. Melanie. Archive preservation at a museum in the city.”

“Ahh, original historic document preservation or maintaining certificates of authentici—never mind.” She considered Bucky for another beat. When he didn’t offer any more, Sam probed, “so it went well?”

Bucky laughed over his syrup-soaked meal. “For a sitcom, sure. I drank her under the table by accident. The price for a super metabolism I suppose. Had to help her home. Poor thing was blitzed in three cosmos. All with paparazzi hovering at the front entrance.”

“This big around, was she?” Sam held her pinky out, lifting another bite on her fork. She finished chewing before adding, “I take it there was no spark.”

“I think she was nervous. Guys with cameras at the door, ya know? At least the conversation was not about a massive cybernetic arm, so…I’ll take it as a win.” They ate. After Bucky swallowed his last morsel, he braved the next part. “I had no idea he was coming home. I wouldn’t have…been out if I knew.”

Sam was barely two-thirds done with her food, and she contemplated excusing herself. Fatigue oozed into every part of her, slowly, heavier than her dying adrenaline. She wanted to know one more thing. “Did they ever fight? Did they yell at each other like that, or is it just because of me?”

Bucky set his chin on his interlaced hands to think, a strand of hair knocked loose to fall in front of his eyes. “I heard of a few times. And god knows, Tony loves to pick a fight, mostly when he already knows he’ll win. From what I know, Pepper gave back as good as Tony.”

It was comforting to hear, but Sam feared her voice would be ignored regardless. Tony had more experience getting his way than Sam. Without help, she couldn’t win. “Please don’t let him change me,” she whispered. “I don’t need to be cured.”

Bucky took his arms off of the table, contemplative, an inscrutable expression. “Did you get any sleep?”

 _Not an answer._ Sam shook her head and took another bite. _He’s like Ty’s Magic 8 Ball. Ask Again Later._

“Finish up, and I’ll tell Wilson you’re not running this morning, but I’m guessing he won’t be surprised. Go to bed. Deal?” Bucky rinsed his plate and headed out.

On her way back to her room, Sam spotted the two cold coffees at the table by the window. She left them.


	29. Logic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So sorry! This was accidentally a chapter repeat. Fixed now!
> 
> Tony learns more about Sam's past. Bucky teaches Sam to make a meal her father will love.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE—July 2039

Shirtless and a little cold, Bucky sat in a lab with someone poking and prodding at his arm…again. Tony and Samantha stood arguing over him, radiating the same stubborn righteousness.

Tony mumbled critiques of Bucky’s impeccably detailed arm, each proving moot upon inspection or a single-phrase reason from its designer. Bucky watched Sam’s shoulders raise, her back shrinking with each backhanded compliment. She was defensive, but for his part, Bucky thought she should be proud. He had no complaints, save for the one time Tony continued to harp on.

“But the neural overload of being hit by Thor’s lightning…?” Tony jabbed again.

“Corrected by a tissue-specific Extremis, locally injected as you witnessed,” Sam answered.

Tony hovered over the shoulder of the shirtless super-soldier, wearing magnifiers. “You got lucky,” he scoffed finally.

“No, I didn’t.” Sam backed towards the far chairs, tired and avoiding eye-contact. “It was engineered to die after one proliferation. Captain Barnes was never in danger of infection.”

“So you admit it’s an infection?” Her father straightened, bouncing a reflex tool off of Bucky’s elbow to measure the flinch. There was no point to it, but Tony enjoyed making Bucky furrow his brow in annoyance. “Do you know how many things could have gone wrong with an adaptive virus like that?”

Sam’s nostril’s flared. “It worked on Wilson, didn’t it?”

The room filled with lead. Tony dropped the tool, eyes wide. “Excuse me,” he breathed.

A light clicked on so ferociously in his mind it made Bucky’s eye twitched. _Her concern on our flight to Wakanda, testing Wilson with cards during training…_ A surge of irritation for not connecting it sooner swept through him.

Sam broke the heavy silence. “I knew the neural-isolated virus would work on Big Sam because I’d already used a dermal version on myself. He wasn’t waking up. Steve told me you all had as good as given up.”

 _So Steve had to have pieced together what she’d done…_ This meant she had already used Extremis on herself before that day in the woods. Sam knew exactly what she carried around with her. She had pointed for him to use it. She was exactly as brilliant as Tony and just as self-destructive. He watched her closer in the quiet.

“And Buc—Barnes’s enhanced nerve cells just hadn’t adjusted to the magnification effects of vibranium—” stares followed every move of her anxious hands “—so I…aided their rapid adaptation.”

Bucky tried to help. “And now I’m fine, so we are all good.”

“You experimented on a member of this team?” Tony’s face went purple, several veins dangerously pulsing with every word. “Without his permission? In this building?”

Bucky distinctly remembered Tony saying they had run out of viable therapies.

Sam wrung her hands. “You lied to me,” she spat, “at the wedding, you told me he would be fine. Of course, I tried everything—I tried more than you did.”

“So you graduated to organ and limb replacement—”

“—treatment—”

“—after one success? That’s ridiculous. That’s reckless.” Tony almost charged at Samantha. She leaned towards him, unafraid. Bucky couldn’t get between them this time.

“How was I supposed to know Buck would get hit by 30,000 amps in a newly connected neuron path?” Sam threw up her arms in Tony’s face. “Even if he had his metal arm, you can’t just dial people up to eleven.”

Tony buckled. “That—” he shouted, waving a finger in his daughter’s face “—that movie is a classic.” He took a long moment to swallow a boulder of pride.

Sam teetered, eyes darting around from place to place. She had no more reference ammunition.

Bucky sat still as stone, waiting for the accusations of personal endangerment and downright stupidity certain to come, but Tony shifted. His muscles slacked. The crinkling around his eyes smoothed, and Stark turned to Bucky, dismissing him with a pat on the back.

“You’re done. You’ll survive.” Tony shoved his sleeves up his arms. ”You can go, too, Sass.”

Her neck tensed, lip twitching again, jaw tight as a wire about to snap, but Sam made it out the doors before Tony could even turn around. Standing, Bucky grabbed his shirt, surprised she let Tony have the last word.

Before Bucky pulled the fabric over his head, however, Tony made his way over to whisper, “other than her ass on that chair behind that screen, nobody discusses Avengers’ business with her. Got it?” Tony pointed to Banner, who stood frozen with a look of utter bewilderment. “Good talk.”

***

Life at Headquarters attempted normalcy after weeks of changes following Tony’s return. Sam Wilson retired to permanently train new recruits. Steve Rogers returned to the quiet life in the hills, regularly asking Tony if he wished to join him and Sharon for a day. Jabbing about needing to be the center of attention, Tony declined. Not enough cameras. No reason to wear a suit, iron, or three-piece. The dynamics were shifting and they needed to, fast.

Standing inches from a glass wall overlooking busy workers in a massive campus designed to make him look good, Stark hoped his outer appearance betrayed nothing of the deep fatigue weighing his insides. He recovered from space-sickness months ago; something more sinister plagued him now.

“I don’t like people handing me things,” Tony grunted, spurning the offering from Maria Hill.

The agent rolled her eyes. “You have taken files from me before, Stark.”

“Well—” he shrugged “—I’m an enigma. Humor me. What’s the lay of the land?”

Maria dropped the files on the shining steel table with a thud, glancing across the room. Bruce Banner sat with Samantha at a far station, several projected screens in front of the doctor while Sam sat quietly ‘being instructed.’ She remained safe at what amounted to an incredibly expensive cubicle with the world’s most over-qualified tutor. Tony convinced himself that Sam felt included doing busy work at the computer.

“Shield teams are on every continent dealing with outlying threats or suspected D-Lite transformations. We’ve got alerts out to all morgues to check all overdose victims for traces of the drug to see the scope of its distribution, but not everyone has the resources to test.” Maria sighed. The Director of Operations withheld the currently estimated death toll from her briefing. Bruce mentioned to Tony it had reached over one thousand since Cloak and Dagger survived the drug. “Three aquatic Inhumans have been assigned to Atlantis to help Namor. Still no sign of Victor Von Doom, but we’ve been unable to search Latveria—”

“Why not?” Tony cocked an eyebrow.

“Diplomatically, it’s a non-starter seeing as we are basically accusing the country of being complicit in harboring an enemy of the state, our state that is.”

 _Which they are,_ he thought. He missed the old days of smash-and-grab, asking for forgiveness after he got what he wanted. Iron Man had no nation as Earth’s savior; he landed wherever, whenever…before the Accords.

“Their rep’s language is vague, but it sounds as if our targets are some sort of national treasure. The country’s GDP and living standards have increased remarkably over the last decade. Our enemies are Latveria’s heroes. The people seem to revere Doom.”

“Heroes plural?”

“Again, it’s vague, but they emphasize that no citizens will be considered for extradition whether we have proof of crimes or not. The UN Inhuman Oversight Committee has no jurisdiction. Latveria never signed the Accords and holds no official participation.”

“Where are they getting all this cash, all that industry?” Bruce's face sank, his eyes darkened with concern.

Director Hill shrugged, adding only “unknown.”

Sam chirped to attention across the room. “Did we consider the doctor was trying to access vibranium for the benefit of his people?”

Tony shot her down. “We don’t need to give this guy the benefit of the doubt—”

“So motivation isn’t important?”

“We don’t rationalize crazy.”

“Sorry, Tony,” Bruce interrupted, “but we do if it helps figure out a motive. We can use it to figure out where he went.”

“So, what’s a substance like vibranium most helpful in use for?” Sam continued. “Weapons? Infrastructure? Medicine? Do we know how much he wanted? Is there an alternative material he may go after?”

“He wasn’t prepared to physically carry much alone over a sea,” Tony thought aloud.

“Adamantium,” Bruce added, “but it’s a poor substitute in certain applications.”

“Has any source of that been attacked?”

Maria flipped open one file. “Nothing. Wanda is with the X-Men, has been for a while, and there’s been no action against their facility, even with teams away on missions consistently.”

Sam sat back in her chair, twiddling her finger clipped inside a monitor attached to an electrified wire. Today’s experiment. “So what did Doctor Doom get that replaced his need for vibranium? Could he have gotten it from somewhere else?”

Tony fitfully paced by the windows. “You are not an agent. Eyes on your screen, Killian-two.”

Sam’s lips tightened in frustration. Her physical training had come to an abrupt halt after Tony woke from his first decent night’s sleep on Earth. She was relegated to sit silently beside Bruce and answer only when asked a question. In her newly free time, Tony allowed Hill to use Sam to check positioning orders. It may have been equivalent to assigning a supercomputer basic algebra, but her mother had been good at it. Why shouldn’t Sam? Sam stayed during a brief only because he was currently testing electromagnetic resonance to disrupt her energy production.

“She has a point,” Maria jumped in. “We originally thought he was trying to update his own shielding with vibranium but if he wanted to do something else…”

“And why did he approach so obviously? Like he wanted to fight you guys,” Sam added.

“Don’t you have a caffeine addiction to feed?” Tony snapped.

Sam stood and fired a small ball of plasma from her left hand into the steel waste bin inches away from Tony’s leg. It smoked as he turned away, defeated. Current running across her skin caused no disruption. Test failed. Next theory.

“Yeah, I can do that too,” Tony mumbled.

Smug atop her high horse, Sam shifted on her feet. “Without a suit?”

Maria rolled her eyes before they landed on Bruce. “I don’t need to be here for this. Call me if you think of anything else,” she grumbled while walking out.

“You know, I pioneered the functional use of clean energy.” Tony’s chest puffed farther out.

Unamused, Sam’s eyes went wide and her mouth gaped. “No shit? That’s so cool. What’d you say your name was again?”

He clucked his tongue. “Makes me feel a tad disrespected when you speak to me like that.”

“Said everyone who’s ever spoken to _you_.”

A snort sounded beside her. “Damn it, now there’s two of you,” Bruce murmured, stifling a cough before dismissing himself for a break.

“And that’s lunch,” Sam said, skirting the table towards the door. “Your bull makes me hungry.”

“Burns calories. Keeps me trim.” Tony slapped his stomach and followed her out. “A burger does sound good.”

She shrugged. “Ty’s got me hooked on cereal now. I mean, I crave it—”

“Also your Hogwarts letter came today,” Tony added, pulling the opened card from his pocket. “Trash can comes out of your allowance.”

Tony walked beside Sam to the kitchen, reciting the fancy cursive words on the oversized page by memory.

_Samantha Stark_

_7 am October 5_ _ th _ _, 177A Bleeker Street._

_Sorcerer Supreme, Dr. Steven Strange_

“Notice how he took twice as much space for his own name. Classic Strange. If you learn any party tricks, be sure to teach me.”

***

Sam stood firm in a familiar hallway, torn between working her station by Bruce or being alone in her room. Both options made Sam want to cry in boredom.

The gorgeous, strawberry-blond looked back at her from the frame on the wall. Virginia Pott’s dazzling smile, the delicate height of rosy cheeks, and beautiful blue eyes taunted Sam. Her mother looked effortless, radiant, calm. Hung among all sixty-eight portraits, Pepper still stood out in a crowd.

Sam could see that maybe their eye shape was similar, perhaps the fullness of their lips, possibly their jawline. She could remember her mother’s bubbly nature, a storytime or two, the gentle sweep of hair across her face when Pepper leaned to kiss her goodnight. It tickled. It tickled her still, the thought of that kind of proximity. Sam sometimes imagined it was Pepper when the room was dark and Laura Barton called ‘sleep tight’ to her.

Pep put out fires for Tony. She said no to him. She put up with years of one-night stands. He paid closer attention to those women than her, even if momentarily…

Sam imagined what advice Pepper would give her now. _Consistency, sweetheart,_ perhaps, _and then he’ll see you._ But Pepper herself was all Tony ever truly wanted. Nothing Sam could ever do would matter as much.

Her fingers went limp in her daydream, releasing Strange’s invitation to flutter to the grey floor. As she picked the paper back up, Sam had the urge to rip it apart. This wasn’t what she wanted; this wasn’t worth any of the hell she’d gone through. Sam couldn’t sit behind a screen behind Dr. Banner behind the enormous umbrella corporation behind her father. That wasn’t her place.

She was no fighter, and there was never anything mystical about her. Sam would disappoint Strange just as she disappointed Tony.

“Hey.”

Sam startled, spinning around.

“Sorry,” Bucky added, reaching out to help her balance, “I’ve got you. Almost didn’t find you. You weren’t in the lab.”

Sam tried to focus after lost so deep in thought. “Nope.”

Bucky smiled. “Okay, Sass, I had an idea. You game?”

Sneaking a glance back at Pepper’s portrait, Sam haplessly nodded, shrugged, and shook her head all at once. She never knew what she _should_ do at any given time these days. Missy would know, but Sam didn’t.

* * *

The pure joy on her face distracted him from the scalding splatter of beef fat on his arm.

“Look! The grill marks are in the shape of my palm,” Sam exclaimed.

“Be careful with that,” Bucky cautioned to her outstretched hand. Cooking seemed a safe activity for Sam to participate in, one of which he assumed Tony would approve, and it proved equally entertaining to Bucky. Everyone eats, and as Sam pointed out, learning to make her father’s favorite from scratch could only help her.

The novelty of Sam’s skin reaching a high enough surface temperature to cook the meat wore off on Bucky much faster than Sam. Seeing her so excited held its luster though. As always when he’d found her, she hadn’t eaten.

Sam slapped down her first charred patty with glowing pride. _I could make a habit of this,_ Bucky thought, _I might have to._ Ever since Tony and Bruce panicked at Samantha’s confession of injecting Wilson with Extremis, whatever version of it, Wilson was unceremoniously ‘retired,’ moved to D.C. to work with engineers of projects following his upgraded EXO-7. This left Bucky without a partner and benched to do his own worst nightmare—PR.

Public relations made Bucky long for the days of hiding in Romania, speaking to no one, and sitting alone in an apartment in the dark. That was preferable to the flashing cameras, every so often being shrieked at by an over-excited fan. Uncomfortable didn’t cover the feeling, a fact Samantha noticed.

“Saw you on TV,” she offered, grabbing another patty. Her glance skittered away when Bucky looked up in question. “I’m sorry you have to do that. You look so miserable.”

“I thought I pulled it off rather nicely.” Without the infiltration expertise of Natasha, Bucky was far more transparent than he hoped.

Sam snorted. “Sure. Oscar-worthy even.” She defiantly grabbed a potato chip with her free hand and popped it in her mouth, smirking just like her father when he coined a new nickname.From what Bucky witnessed, the Stark duo was evenly matched in everything except pop-culture references and anecdotes about team members.

Sam gnashed her teeth as if she’d been raised by monkeys. She flipped the burger like a pancake in her hand.

Her smugness reminded him how irritating Tony could be, and the surge of indignation caused Bucky to strike back, less playfully than intended. “You eat like a heathen.”

Sam’s smile fell. She rummaged for small chips, eating piece by piece, becoming a model of dainty and quiet chewing. She changed into the type of delicate bird Bucky recently met on dates. That was not his intention, his valid observation surpassed by a twinge of pain seeing her deflating spirit.

“It’s a shame everyone now is so formal,” he said through a frown, hoping to be more convincing than promotional outings.

Sam furrowed her brow in question but remained focused on eating politely.

“I mean, these dates Sharon sets up, coffee and drinks. We just sit there. What happened to dancing, or a hike, or exploring a city? It’s stifling to not move around.”

“Doesn’t sound all that bad to sit still,” Sam offered before fully swallowing another chip, shoulders relaxing. “Picnics are outside but you’re sitting.” Slapping down the cooked burger, she tightened again when she noticed her manners. “How many you up to now?”

“Six.” _In half as many months_ _but also in twice as many years._ “I’m a regular Casanova of the Coffee Shop.”

Sam snorted. “Librarians not doing it for you?”

“Four were—are agents,” Bucky said, mumbling, “but I’m here all the time when not on a mission, so talk always circles back to work and clearance level and what she’s allowed to know. Then I have nothing else to talk about because this building—the job—is, unfortunately, my whole life.”

“There’s the door.” Sam pointed with her free hand. “You just said you wanted to get out there.”

“Yeah,” Bucky sighed, “Sharon said that.”

“So nothing sparked? Did you even try?” Sam fluffed the heap of lettuce beneath the cooked burgers. “Buck, you aren’t Quasimodo. This shouldn’t be that difficult for you.”

“She said that, too.”

Sam raised her shoulders and hands, one still glistening with grease, waiting for an explanation.

Bucky mimicked her gesture. He had no reply, but the corner of his mouth twitched when he heard her call him ‘Buck.’ She’d done it before, but he couldn’t pinpoint when it started. It was nice, friendly, and familiar as when Steve said it, comforting.

Sam sighed a few more times while washing her hands and holding up the plate for Bucky to remove the other patties from the heat.

“Odd question,” she said finally, “are you _unhappy_?”

“What? No. We both…were alone for so long, Steve just wants the same companionship for me that he’s found.”

The eyebrows raised again as Sam waited for more of an answer that never came. Then she set down the plate to say, “I may not have much experience with…people, but I never saw the appeal. I may have been unhappy with myself at times, but no person brought me out of that. If they had, that would be unfair to hang my happiness on them. Personally, I don’t believe that’s what love is for.”

At 18 years old Sam instantly became the wisest person in the building.

“But,” she added, “you also don’t want to end up like my father because that is just sad.” Sam looked Bucky dead in the eyes, saying “even Frankenstein’s monster had a bride.”

“Sam!” Tandy burst around the corner. “Found you. Oh gosh, smells great. You coming down for bowling? Ty’s setting up.” The blond huffed, out of breath from her excitement, and race through the halls. Her gaze landed on Bucky. “You can come too if you bring the food.”

“Jeez, Dee, tell him your priorities,” Sam retorted but snapped up the plate all the same. She made no attempt to ask Bucky if he would join. “We’re in. Grab whatever fixings you want from the fridge.”

Bucky couldn’t argue; after making a big deal about not having activities, bowling qualified as another safe and normal pastime. He followed with the chips.

He did not prepare himself for the contrast between the sage wisdom Samantha had laid forth in the kitchen and the crouching form centered in the lane, heaving a ball from between her legs. It was truly painful to watch and yet utterly hysterical.

He laughed until tears ran down his cheeks.

“Everyone’s a critic,” Sam grumbled, planting hands on her hips as she stood up. “You don’t like my granny-roll?”

Bucky could barely get out the words through choked breaths. “Why…why can’t… you just…throw it normally?”

Sam opened her mouth to make some indignant reply but was cut short by a third, neutral party.

“We found out the hard way—” Tyrone indicated a sloppily patched hole in the wall above the pins “—that Sam cannot roll gently into that good lane.” Smiling, his air was tailor-made bombast aimed directly at his friend.

Sam rolled her eyes well enough. “Thank you, Winston.” She returned to her seat beside Bucky while Tandy bowled her frame. “It’s all or nothing with exerted force, it seems, but not the generated energy blasts. Those I can control pretty well now. It’s fascinating, but apparently not interesting enough to research since Tony’s return. I suspect it has something to do with extended direct contact with the vibranium in my skin since this is my dominant hand.” Sam’s rambling ended with a wiggle of the fingers on her right hand before she looked up.

Bucky zoned out somewhere in the middle, but he did manage to keep his expression focused enough that Sam was fooled. _See, I’m ok at acting. I’m convincing._

Tandy dance-bowled across the lane, gracefully landing a seven-ten split. Tyrone gave a golf clap and picked up his ball of choice. They’d heard Sam’s theories before. Neither having a scientific bone in their bodies, no one responded.

Sam pushed her empty plate away and tucked her hands into her hoodie pocket.

“Have you ever tried,” Bucky delicately started, “talking like everyone else?”

Sam scoffed, adjusting her shoulders against the hard chair.

“What’s wrong with intelligence?”

Bucky felt the hair on his arm bristle in discomfort. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, that’s sure as shit what it sounded like. I’m not ladylike enough for you? Get in line. I’m not the one who wants ‘movement dates’ and a woman with a lizard pin. Be unique but not too unique. Jeez, with my loud eating, my granny-roll, even my scientifically-curious thoughts—” Sam flatlined her hands in a sweeping motion “—then I’m…what? Indelicate? Uncouth? Unfriendly? So it’s my fault my father can’t stand me?”

Unable to stop himself, Bucky pressed his hands up to calm her, replying, “that was perhaps the most unladylike thing I’ve witnessed in fifty years. Please, I meant nothing else. I meant—” _What the hell do I mean?_ “—communication is important to…listening can help friends relate to…common interests.” He couldn’t grasp his point. The smirk across his lips threatened to release his own indelicate snort as he imagined the slow, ridiculous move which he was sure to witness repeatedly.

Sam pursed her lips. “That was the most unintelligible thing I’ve ever heard…” she said under her breath, “but I listened to it.”

Tandy dressed another burger. “Hate to burst your bubble, Cap, but you can’t go back. She’ll tear you apart with logic. Better move on.” She cut it in half, Tyrone claiming the second half on his return to the table. Bucky noticed them move like yin and yang, perfectly in sync.

“Right,” Bucky mumbled. _I suppose I can’t, for better or worse._

“You’re up.” Ty wiped the corner of his mouth. “Wasn’t there a dance where the men did just that…between their legs…to the woman?”

There was a dance like that, and Bucky remembered fondly that Miss Dot with her red-eyed pin was the last partner he’d had for it.

“You know what that means,” Tandy giggled. “Go show us your granny-roll.”


	30. Furnace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam takes a risk to prevent harm to Tyrone and finds, without distraction, she has feelings for an Avenger.
> 
> Featuring the song "Something I Dreamed Last Night" by Benny Green, Album "Then and Now" 2018.

CHAPTER THIRTY—August-September 2039

Sam rubbed her eyes furiously. When she slept, she dreamt of staring at even more screens. It was hard to know when she really was awake and working.

Bruce usually blurted out the next question on his lengthy list for Sam to work out an answer to while he continued down the line. Today seemed focused entirely on a problem the team had toyed with for months, but she didn’t know why it was so urgent now. No one told her what was going on…on purpose, at least, and after months of pushing to be heard and included, to no avail, Sam’s mental investment whittled down to the size of a pea. That tiny lump still kept her from sleeping well anyway.

Sam yawned while Banner mumbled something under his breath before turning to her.

“I’m sending you a mock-up for a containment casing. Run diagnostics for allowing sensory control of the Space Stone, will you?”

“No prob, Bob,” Sam said flatly, nearly cross-eyed from fatigue. She adjusted a few parameters in the model before getting up to stretch. “‘Bout time for a pick-me-up, I think.”

She didn’t get the chance to leave the lab.

An alert sounded on Bruce’s console, prompting the doctor to heatedly warn someone over comms that “we aren’t ready yet.” Whoever it was didn’t listen, and after removing his glasses, Banner’s frustrated pinch of the bridge of his nose told her it was her father. By now Sam recognized this as the universal symbol for 'No, Tony, please don’t.' Bruce pinched his nose often.

Tony burst through the double doors, ordering the men who followed him to clear the center of the room. “The idea is to not blow up the room, but no promises,” he shrugged. He pointed to several tables. “Goes, goes, be careful with that one—”

“It’s untested, Tony.” Bruce stood, shooing a lackey away from snatching the stool he sat on.

Tony stayed facing the door. “Doesn’t matter. Time’s up and we need to see what we are up against.”

“What’s happening?” Sam’s station was pulled over to a far corner. Unsurprisingly, Tony didn’t answer her.

Tyrone walked in, wearing one of the minimal spacesuits used for travel to the orbiting station. Tony clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good—” Tony held on to the helmet while Ty adjusted a glove “—they’ll be in with it shortly.”

Bruce stepped forward. “If the signal just went off that a ship is outside of the solar system, we have enough time to practice this.”

“Not really,” Tony snapped, “if that’s the main ship of Annihilus, we need to know right now and keep it from getting to Earth. If it’s a scout ship, we need to keep the fleet from getting bigger.”

Sam tried to get close to Ty. “You’re teleporting to space? Have you ever done that before?”

Ty’s dark eyes lowered to fiddle with a clasp.

Tandy raced in, bright red in fury. “Like hell you’re going, Ty.”

Sam turned to Dee. “Have you ever given him enough energy for that?”

“They don’t want _me_ to do it,” Dee choked back, “they want him to use that thing.”

A man and woman carried in a heavily armored trunk. Sam knew what lay inside.

She gripped Ty’s arm. “You can’t touch that thing,” she warned. “Even without direct contact, the radiation exchange damages Homosapien tissue, particularly blood vessels.” She turned to her father. “He can’t touch that, Tony.”

“Kid, this is not a negotiation. Cloak here is an Avenger in all but name—that’s next month, right?—so he knows the risk.”

“You can’t expose him to that without testing it,” Sam insisted.

“Sit back down, or leave,” Tony spat back. “This has nothing to do with you.”

Ty interrupted. “Actually, sir, so far I’ve only used Lightforce from Dee—Dagger…sir.”

“I’ve heard you like cereal, too,” Tony added, spinning a finger to speed up the pace of the two charged with the heavy trunk.

“—and he won’t just have a radiation burn from the damn stone. He could die.” Tandy stepped between Tyrone and Tony for good measure. One good grip of Tony without his armor and Dee could have him on his ass.

“Well, I hope not,” Tony said calmly, “but he’s a big boy. Energy is energy, and he’s gonna need a boatload. Move, Black Swan.”

The agents finished the security protocols, opening the trunk to reveal a glorious flash of blue light. Tucked in lead lining sat the Space Stone, a raw ingot of power from the Big Bang itself.

Sam rounded on Tony once again. “You want the info so bad, get it yourself. But Ty isn’t doing random interstellar teleport without practice.”

Tony looked at Tyrone, reaching around Dee to hand the helmet over. “He’s got the coordinates where the ship pinged.”

“Sam, you said it yourself,” Bruce added, “if an apparatus can aid in controlling the energy—”

“We aren’t even sure it’s the right type of energy,” Sam screamed, her anger rising in time with Tandy’s.

Ty coughed for attention. “I want to help, but that distance is going to take a lot out of me. I’m not gonna drain Dee to—”

“No,” Sam and Dee screeched in unison. Fists white with rage as she glared at Tony Stark, Tandy concentrated her power towards her fingers, but before the girl could spray the room with daggers, Sam grabbed her arm, siphoning the Lightforce into herself.

The light rippled and magnified beneath her skin until a hum was audible across the whole room. “You want your recon so bad,” Sam asked, “you got it.”

Sam smacked her hand down across Tyrone’s forearm, and the two disappeared in an eerie cloud of inky thick fog.

One-hundred and four seconds later, the pair reappeared in the midst of an explosion of yelling between Tony, Bruce, and Tandy. Sam’s frozen body clanked onto the floor. Ty detached his helmet, mid-apology.

“I didn’t know she was doing it,” he murmured, shaking.

As Tony stood, terror blocking any movement he made, Bruce flung himself forward to check Samantha. Tandy moved Ty away to comfort him, watching the rest intently.

Frostbite receded as the pink returned to Sam’s skin, and in a lengthy, frightful gasp that howled through the room, she started to breathe again.

Hoarse still, Sam sat up to look at Ty. “You saw it, right?”

“Yeah,” Ty breathed, “I saw them.”

_* * *_

“Nevermind, I fixed it now,” Sam burst at Tony while rushing away.

He followed, pissed. “Oh, you fixed it? And we’re supposed to take your teenage word for it?” The reverberation in the open Wakandan halls echoed their angry words.

Sam spun around. “Then don’t take my word for it. Take all that oh-so-precious Earth-saving time to check my math. You can help me with my homework.” He felt spit hit his neck Sam was so close. “I’d be so grateful!” She mocked him with a bow.

“You don’t think I’m doing all this for you, so you can be safe here? Pay attention, Sam, I’m afraid of what being around me would do to you.” Tony grabbed her arm, clutching the delicate connection with his daughter. “People hunt me down. They torture. They kidnap. They kill.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“I just want you to—” He heard it again. The snap. The bone under his hand collapsed, making the same hollow sound as Thanos’s fingers on Titan.

Sam’s face sank faster than her body. Her sunken cheeks, the deep grey under her flat brown eyes, the almost plastic gloss of her skin. The sickly face of his daughter morphed with a devious grin. The short hair darkened and pulled back from her face, revealing a sharp peak and crazed eyes. The nose pointed above an equally sharp goatee, and there beneath Tony, arm in his hand, kneeled Lemuel Dorcas.

The grin parted. “How’s our girl doing?”

Tony punched the sweat-soaked sheet off in the dark. Another nightmare. One of the hundreds to plaque his life. _At least this time Sam didn’t become Pepper_ , he thought. He could never shake Pepper crying while her arm hung mangled, but nowadays Dorcas crept into these dreams more frequently. He knew it wasn’t real.

The evil doctor’s lingering question echoed in Tony’s mind. _Our_ girl. Who was Sam now? Who did she belong to?

She’d laid cold and unmoving on the lab floor, all to prove _him_ reckless and hotheaded.

Four ships.

Not a scout, the start of a gathering. They were scanning the system. Tony’s longshot chance was to keep Satellite Station cloaking how advanced their planet was and hope the ships passed them by. Earth needed to go dark immediately.

Tony would never tell her, but Sam may actually have saved them by stopping the use of the stone; that was the exact energy signature they needed to avoid Annihilus detecting. For the first time since the Stone War, he was grateful Vision had never been restored to use the Mind Stone. Perhaps that was the only good thing to come out of its destruction in the facility explosion that killed his wife.

He could use more recon on how the ships were scanning and how much they already knew about Earth. However, after the stunt she pulled, Sam wasn’t allowed near Ty, and even if Ty teleported out there again, how long would it take to find answers? Could they even understand what he’d find?

 _Four hours of sleep,_ Tony thought, _good enough._ He dressed and left for the lab.

* * *

 _Your brain goes to strange places when you’re bored._ Sam’s fresh appreciation for life without direction framed the sentiment in gaudy, bright gold in her mind. _You’re so far down the rabbit hole…_

She’d been banned from her “job” since teleporting. Unable to see Tandy and Tyrone while they took on further Avengers’ duties, Sam lived without interaction most days, lonelier than her basement in Wakanda. She was allowed no tech devices either, seeing as her proficiency was known and highly suspect by Bruce and Tony.

Bucky suggested keeping a journal. He explained over another homemade lunch that he used to keep notebooks while hiding in Romania. “Helps collect my thoughts, practice what I want to say. Sometimes, when I write out my version of what happened in a confusing situation, I can see it from a different perspective,” he’d explained over tomato soup. Sam had offered her grilled cheese sandwich expertise to compliment the meal. Bucky had even let her use her hands to cook them, though she knew he thought it a little unsanitary.

In her lengthy entries in Composition books, Sam wrote directly to Missy, as if her long-gone friend could respond to the new dramas of life with Tony Stark. After a while, her thoughts answered her in Missy’s monotone, flat yet sarcastic, and somehow loving, too.

Nothing distracted her from overthinking one very particular thing Sam noticed: Bucky was always around. _Not every day because he’s got shit to do._ He went out of his way to get her out of her room. _If Wilson were here, he would too, so would Dee and Ty._ When Bucky said goodnight, he hugged her tighter than necessary. _Didn’t he?_

It wasn’t meant to be anything more than comforting. _Right? Couldn’t be._

Sam ate like an animal and bowled like an old woman. She’d yelled at him, and she made him angry enough to yell at her. So… _Can I be trusted to think this out logically? I’ve died twice this year so far._

He’d woken up to stop her and Tony from fighting…after Big Sam saw them in the atrium _. Because he protects people. That’s the job. He protects everyone in the building, everyone in the world. That’s it._ Bucky simply saved the day, again… _and then kissed my head and smelled my hair…_

_You think, but you don’t know that._

He taught her to cook, multiple meals now. He bowled with her. Like a date, but definitely not a date. He…

 _Does he smile more?_ Sam swore Bucky smiled more, but he’d been on other dates. _He could like one of them._

But he touched her shoulder or arm when asking what she was up to or how her day was going. He wanted to talk to her. _That’s stupid. He did that before, even on the ship to Wakanda, even at the wedding; I’m only noticing now that I’m bored._

_And you smelled him first._

Sam sighed. Bucky’s scent was a mix of warm linen, citrus soap, and musk…paired with her daddy-issue tears smudged onto his pectoral. Sam acknowledged that was a little perverted, especially since that olfactory memory eclipsed any part of the accompanying arguments she had with Tony, a relationship that drained her entirely.

Her emptiness refilled with a wholly different feeling, an antsy excitement, an uncertainty, a deep shame. _That’s not normal. Right? He’s simply a good hugger. Oh my god, just shut up!_

Her brain warred with her now, as it did every day recently. Nights were the worst. Sam could keep it together when Tony called her Sass. She could block out some of it while working but pushed aside with no other distraction…

_How does anyone get anything done? Hormones are stupid._

_You’re better than this. Buck up—_

_GODDAMMIT._

Her discomfort radiated to every cell. Sam wished to scream the tightness in her throat loose, blow apart the pressure crushing her chest with an inferno. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Sam couldn’t do it. She avoided the root of the feeling for weeks. She had a relationship with her father, albeit rocky, one of the only things she had ever truly wanted, but Tony alone wasn’t enough. Dee and Ty weren’t enough.

The guilt of wanting this, however, _him_ in particular, it threatened to suffocate her soul for a greedy child.

Yet still, each little thought haunted her. Bucky Barnes haunted her.

Tonight in particular, her room became a stifling prison. In the open air of the grounds, in the dark, the rolling chirp of insects harped a symphony of company. At least this was a cool, breezy prison. She was still alone though, and the heat turned over and over in her gut, growing.

The steely blue halo surrounding the moon became an eye, and the dark, wispy shadows of clouds became long, soft hair. _It’s not real._ She could feel it between her fingers, and the heat grew. _Stupid._ The low bass of echoing water spoke to her gently, calling Sam from her screen-dreams to food down the hall, and the heat grew. _Quit thinking._ Her hand met the button of her jeans to push the blaze back, but then the cool metal slid over her fingers as a familiar military jacket.

_You’ve got to be kidding._

Sam released her hand, almost crying out in frustration, instead of letting a few tears fall in trade for silence.

 _No_ , she repeated. _No, no, no, no. He’s not yours to want. He’s never going to be yours. Let it go now. Let this die now and move on._ But how does something fed by absence, fed by nothing real or logical, die? Nothing encouraged this feeling except fantasy and hormones. Sam was smart enough to know that. Intelligence changed nothing. Intelligence killed no emotion, stifled no threatening bursts of flame. Control was a joke.

Before she could stop, the tears became soft sobs, broken by uncontrolled heaving breaths. The bugs were loud; the ringing in her ears was louder. The reverberation of warring forces inside her grew violent, the yellow hue under her skin guaranteeing an unhappy resolution. Raising her left arm in anticipation, Sam could feel something inside about to snap.

Arms wove around her chest and waist from behind, gripping her sides with a solid clutch. “I’ve got you. It’s ok,” a beloved voice sounded, “you’re alright.”

Without permission, her body melted and drained of the fight. _Where the hell did he come from?_

_Do you even care?_

The void left by her sudden loss of heat was sickening. Sam’s tears flew out as the dam broke. The body so betraying her seemed to double down on its own vulnerability towards Bucky Barnes. _Stupid._

Sam collapsed her weight against him, crying like a baby unable to speak.

“I’ve got you,” he repeated. Bucky slowly released her to sink to the soft grass and sat beside, facing her, his hand calmly resting on her leg.

 _Oh, great, watch me cry._ Sam struggled to make herself quiet, but the delicious discomfort radiating across her leg slowed her progress to regain equilibrium. She was trying to smother freshly lit kindling.

“Here,” Bucky started, holding out a pair of earbuds, “I find music helps.”

Sam didn’t move. “Helps with what?”

“Sleeping,” he replied. “Nights have always been hard for me.”

Sam tried to swallow, hearing herself gulp to rid her throat of an immovable rock. She settled the headphones in without looking up.

Even with a slow, steady hum of gentle jazz, the lump remained and her tears fell. After a few bars, his hand left her thigh to wipe her cheek, and whether in relish or disbelief, Sam’s eyes closed to push the last salty drops loose. His thumb swept over her cheek one more time.

Sam felt tortured by his presence. She spat at herself internally.

_That is a gross exaggeration. He actually was tortured for years, decades even, and you, little idiot girl, who hasn’t even lived for two decades, have no right._

She forced her eyes open, sniffing dramatically to move her head away from his hand. He returned to clasping his hands around his knees.

Sam braved a peek up. “Oh my god.” She raised her head entirely. “Where’s your hair?”

Bucky laughed, clean-shaven and cropped. “I have that effect sometimes.” Sam kept staring. “Captain America needs to be PR ready for November. Nat’s orders.”

The ceremony was set to induct Cloak and Dagger, her best friends if she ever got to see them again, into the Avengers’ team proper. New blood. Fighters. They deserved the honor, but Sam hid her frustration. She was just as powerful, if untrained.

_Whose fault is that?_

Sam pulled out an earbud. Her mind went blank, staring. He was a whole different person. Sam had to take in all the new details. Pieces of his face she’d never seen in person before, the ghost of his military portraits from the 40s, Sharon's old footage of their unit was brought to life in front of her. She fumbled for words.

“It’s not always…pain,” Sam finally admitted, eyes darting across his calm face then retreating to the shadowed tree line behind him.

Bucky nodded with a knowing look. His relaxed, pristine face made Sam more uncomfortable. He had no idea. He listened to her nonsense as if it were important, as if she was even intelligible in this blubbering state. She gulped again. Her mouth opened and closed like a gasping, stupid fish. She wiped her face with a shaky hand to break his gaze.

_Oh yeah, you’re doing great. Really seductive._

With him sitting right beside her, everything overwhelmed her. The breeze became suffocating with the addition of his musk and a new element, aftershave. She just knew it was there; it was the same air that brushed across his face. The moon that so reminded her of his eyes shone down on them both, and those eyes could see it, too, could see her, too. His soft hair and rough hands were within reach, and Sam’s chest felt crunched between the 18-wheeler of her desire and the pavement of reality.

Bucky remained calm, oblivious, lazily rolling his eyes over the training field and Sam alike. He let the next song play. Sam thought he might be able to hear her pounding heart without his own cover of headphones. Instead, the intoxicating man with dark hair checked his small device and leaned back onto his own bent arms, stretching out like a feral cat beneath the moon.

She pushed the earbuds back. Sam’s arm twitched involuntarily, clenching against her shirt. _You’re killing me here. What’s your next smooth line? ‘I like the way the moonlight hits your crotch?’ Oh, damn it, stop._

In her mind, she was crawling all over him in a dozen different ways, but then she caught the change in her breathing and slapped a hand violently against her mouth and nose, hard enough to feel a twinge against the nerve running to her eyes. _Don’t break your own nose. He didn’t see, did he?_

_His face is less than four feet away. It’s safe to say he sees you._

Sam was totally unqualified to handle this. Lila had been too old to talk to her about boys. Laura had thrown in a few vague phrases about ‘the right time’ and ‘when you’re ready.’ Nat allowed herself a few crude jokes around Sam before she stopped calling or coming to visit, but not even a mild reference to sex during training. Annie had encouraged her to ‘have fun’ with Lucas because he was a ‘nice guy.’ Meanwhile, her best friend in the whole world was a computer program that could quote anatomically correct articles on the science of attraction and physical intimacy. Sam thought she might throw up just thinking about it. Tandy would know what to tell her if she were here.

 _You need to let this go. You need to let it die now and move on._ The voice in her head was starting to sound like Missy, clinical and objective, unsympathetic.

Bucky had known her since she was a baby. His most vivid memory of her was probably still a four-year-old screaming at him, calling him a monster while he tried to help her.

 _Ungrateful, spoiled brat. That’s all you are to him. End of story._ Sam had to tip her hat to the voice of Missy; she sure knew how to quash an argument. The diminishing cracks were soothing in this instance, distracting.

Sam snapped to alert when a hand broke her dead stare at her own crossed arms. Bucky looked down at her with an outstretched arm, waiting. She plucked out an earbud.

“You ready for bed?”

_The hell?_

Bucky half-retracted his arm, seeing her shocked face. “You don’t have to,” he corrected, “if you don’t want to.”

 _Oh, god, shut up!_ Trying to suppress a firework show under her skin, Sam repeated her imitation of a fish out of water.

“Keep the music if you want,” he added, holding out the control.

That’s not _exactly_ what she wanted, but Sam supposed that was the less awkward of her options. Before she answered, Bucky glanced at the song detail on the tiny screen of his player, taking the earbud Sam removed and putting it in his own ear with a smile.

“This is a good one,” he said, grabbing her hand to pull her off the cool ground. “You’ll like this one.” Without warning, playful Bucky pulled her close as if to dance.

His smell assaulted her, muting all thought. The linen and soap wrapped in something sweet she couldn’t place. He was right though; the smooth instrumentals were like a lullaby with the soft swaying movement in his arms.

Words sprang to life mid-song.

_“I can’t believe that you’re not here with me, to have a laugh or share a tea with me…”_

Sam let herself breathe deeply. He smelled like grass, that was the new sweet note. She kept her face away from his chest, but he’d taken one of her hands in his, Bucky’s right hand against her waist. It was a terrible test she was bound to fail.

Her brain gave up, and the music filled her head.

“ _To never look into those eyes again, the sun might just as well not rise again…”_

Sam looked up as the song rang out in one ear, and a falling star caught her eye. She almost thought about how romantic this all was until the fiery streak continued to approach.

The spot grew, headed straight for the compound. _What the hell is that?_ More alarming still: it turned in the air above the trees to aim at her and Bucky on the lawn.

“Get behind me, Buck.” Sam pushed past him, stirring what she could in her arm, forcing the pressure of her anxiety forward. Fireworks might be necessary.

A silver suit landed twenty meters away. _Tony? It looks too small—_

Bucky tried to grab Sam’s shoulders to pull her out of the way. “Who are you? Why are you here?” He stepped to the side, a palm on Sam’s stomach, holding her back.

The surface of the humanoid suit rippled into a mimicked body and a face.

Sam’s face.

“I’m finally able to return to you,” it intoned.

 _Holy shit,_ Sam froze _._ “Missy?”


	31. Miss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mistress returns for Samantha.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE—October 2039

Lights shot on across the whole campus.

“Who the hell is Missy?”

He strained to see detail in the glare. Its features glimmered like the Iron Man suit but shifted like the silver tips of waves up to its neck. It was…changing, bit by bit, over and over, adjusting. An indistinct body topped by Samantha Stark’s face, only with flat eyes turned to Bucky.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” it started, monotone and robotic, a stunted feminine chirp, smiling with Sam’s mouth, “thank you for keeping your promise.”

A chill shot down his throat. Reaching for a pistol that wasn’t there, Bucky rocked off balance.

Sam barreled past him to embrace the newcomer. He had never witnessed such a confusing display of affection.She was so animated, so ecstatic over something she had not recognized a moment ago, something that knew him. _How?_

Engrossed, circling, Sam smiled and jabbered. “Me…? Oh—of course, my graft scans. What materials? Vibranium—a new alloy—What about power source? Hell of a processing configuration—” she touched the robot’s shoulder “—thermal-output neutral. —damn, girl, well done!” So it went on with the answers flying farther over his head than Tony and Bruce in a playful tech-spar.

Armed guards swarmed the lawn. Iron Man touched down in front of a shiny new hybrid daughter, arms raised, ready to fire.

Sam pulled away to place the robot against her back protectively.

Tony knew the drill. “Uh, new models have a curfew,” his megaphoned words rang from inside the helmet. “Also, total side note, who the hell are you?”

 _A very good question._ Bucky missed his music and solitude already.

“She’s my friend,” Sam screeched, standing with wide arms to block access to the thing behind her. “Missy is my friend. Don’t shoot.”

“Kid.” Tony opened his helmet with a heaving sigh. He took in the force surrounding them, Sam’s _two_ faces, and Bucky’s alarmed look.

Barnes gave him a half-hearted shrug. “Made no moves against us,” he admitted.

“Honestly,” Tony huffed, “if you think you can shock me with an identical twin robot, get in line.”

She said something too low to make out. Bucky could see Tony’s shoulder’s slouch, and the back of his head tilt, but still heard no coherent reply. They went back and forth for a few moments, Sam’s real face sinking to a frown.

The helmet clamped down. “Guns down. Quarantine protocols for the spooky chick.”

“But I’m staying with her,” Sam said.

“No,” Tony yelled, “you’re—” he shifted an accusatory finger to the correct Sam “— _you_ are grounded, young lady.”

Although the bot _had_ made no threatening moves, he demanded the sidearm from the nearest guard.

Sam entwined her hand with the newcomer. That piqued Bucky’s interest; he’d never seen her do that before.

He followed the security forces to the containment lab, Sam and ‘Missy’ whispering excitedly, hand in hand the whole way. He couldn’t read their lips. In fact, the robot’s mouth moved very little, unlike lips at all.

“You stay out here,” Tony said outside the lab wing, but when he made eye contact with his daughter he added, “for now.” He offered a gloved hand out towards the couch. “Please.” The gesture was so soft, Bucky almost gasped. _Never thought I’d see the day._

Tony let the suit retract into his breast-piece.

Gently patting the robot, Sam looked at no one else. Her smile died.

The guard escorted the intruder down to ‘the Box,’ an adaptive safety lab adjacent to research facilities. As Bucky understood it, the room was a modified version of a containment chamber built for the Hulk.

Sam’s doppelgänger entered without a word and allowed the door to seal behind her.

While walking down the hall to the monitoring station, Bucky raked his memory for any mention of friends he didn’t know by name. _She talked about the Barton kids, a few people from Harvard and Wakanda, but…_ No one sounded close to her. Sam never seemed to want or care for close friendships. Bucky felt bad for her, actually, because Sam always seemed a little… _robotic_. His teeth clenched. He never liked the unknown.

Natasha and Bruce were already sitting with Tony in the lab. Bruce yawned, adjusting his pajama bottoms to lean forward on the chair. Nat sat straight as an arrow in a long robe, eyeing Tony warily.

Without turning her head, Nat struck first. “I hear it likes you,” she whispered to Bucky, “or at least it knows you.” Upon hearing his jaw crack under pressure, she snorted. “What? You didn’t notice the place is mic’d?”

Bruce opened sleepy eyes to swipe through scan after scan coming from the Box. “We’ve got elements of Vision’s vibranium body, nanotech, a photostatic veil, retro-reflective panels—Jesus, Tone, the thing can cloak itself and look like anybody? What did you do? Is this some fantasy sex bot you forgot to tell us about?”

“If it was mine, Romanoff would be my first choice of model,” Stark said, winking before shifting his own focus from screen to screen.

Nat pursed her lips faintly. “How sweet…”

“As it happens, I don’t have a clue what that thing is,” Stark continued. He pressed a button in front of the small, reinforced one-way mirror. “What’s your name again?”

“Sam called it Missy,” Bucky mumbled.

The monotone returned through the speakers. “You may call me Mistress, Anthony.”

Bruce flicked a brow high above his glasses.

Tony put up a finger. “Scout’s honor. Not my sex-bot. That’s just coincidence.” He pressed the comm again. “And that’s Mr. Stark to you.”

“No. That was your father,” Missy flattened.

The nagging greeting of the robot slammed to the front of Bucky’s brain.

 _Promise—kept my promise—do you promise?_ Shuri had made it very clear she had not helped Sam escape in any way. _The computer’s questions in Wakanda. She knew my name. This—the robot opened Sam’s cryotube!_

“I know her,” Bucky blurted. He stumbled over his explanation to a team of wide eyes. “That makes her a friendly, right? Sam would be dead without her, so…”

“It,” Tony corrected. “My daughter would be dead without _it_. There’s a difference.” With a firm lip, he held Bucky’s gaze. “And could we not mention the ocean? I’m still off fish.”

“Another super bot,” Bruce breathed. “You Starks can’t help yourselves, can you?”

Tony threw a hand up. “Don’t start.” He spun around to look at their subject again, “Technically, it’s an android. More like an adaptive andr—an adaptoid if you will. Oh, that’s good. Write that down, Banner, but—” Tony gnawed on a knuckle “—why would she name it Mis…stress…” He stopped dead in his tracks.

Tony turned back, eyes glazed. “Gotta go.”

Bucky put up an arm before he could rush out. “What do we do?”

Tony let loose a strangled giggle, shrugging. “You know, shield yourself or whatever, Cap.” He flicked Bucky’s unarmored forearm and stepped around. “Shoot it. See how that goes.”

Once the door shut behind Tony, as if aware of the pause through bulletproof, blast-proof, one-way glass, Missy asked to see Samantha. Bucky and Nat looked to Bruce.

“Do we leave it in there?” Nat whispered as if Missy could hear them. “I don’t get a spidey-tingle, but I’d rather be cautious.”

“You didn’t see them,” Bucky added softly, “Sam’s not going let it go.”

The doctor made several sleepy sighs between indefinite shrugs. He rubbed his forehead before conceding. “Her—Sam’s room already has heat shielding and a security lock. Fair?”

Nat dropped the corners of her mouth to a frown, unconvinced, then she stood, adjusted the sash of her robe, and walked out.

Bruce put down his tablet, scratching at his chest under a plain t-shirt. “You heard her. It likes you. You’re up.”

 _Can no one in this building take some responsibility?_ “And how long are we going to keep them in there? Sam’s already been in there for weeks.” Bucky paused. His audience’s blank stare cooled him. “Stark could take forever.”

The doctor quietly thought _or maybe he’s sleeping with his eyes open_.

“Should we send her some books or something…while they wait?” Bucky offered. “Someone’s got to bring her food, too.”

“Sure. But in the morning. The _real_ morning.” Bruce waved past as he followed Nat to their room.

The red glow of the clock read 4:19. It seemed no amount of soothing jazz would be helping Bucky sleep tonight. Only an hour ago he had stopped by Sam’s room, knowing her night-owl tendencies, to find an empty room with a stack of notebooks on the desk. He couldn’t help but glance at the two open, hand-written books.

The top pages displayed scribbled blueprints of some sort, but it looked more like genetic or medical notes. The bottom just looked like a diary. He’d looked away as quickly as possible, but his brain took a snapshot of the last three words: _but not him._

Bucky wasn’t shocked that Tony was on thin ice with Sam, but knowing what she had already been through…he cringed at the idea of taking Sam back to her room and locking her inside, with or without this ‘friend.’

For months, he believed no one should be as isolated as Sam among the Avengers. She wasn’t a criminal. It was the reason he kept trying to get her out of her room.

Now Sam wouldn’t be alone anymore. _But is it progress to lock her up with her friend?_

He steeled himself in the doorway for an awkward morning.

* * *

Tony found it in Storage Sub-Basement E: a single word in his father’s handwriting. Mistress.

He sat on a steel shelf covered in boxes of manila folders long since scanned into digital copies, but whether out of nostalgia or hubris, he never allowed Howard’s notebooks to be copied. Tony knew all of these formulas and every note written in the margins. That one line though, the one about having to abandon Mistress at Maria’s insistence, he always assumed was about a woman Howard Stark ‘kept’ while Tony’s mother stewed in fury at home. Howard Stark 101. It would not have been the first mistress nor the last. Tony only ever wondered _which_ woman his father had meant.

_Mistress with a capital M. How did I not notice?_

And the drive containing her— _it_ —Mistress, had been right here all along.

Tony looked around, smelling the musty air of decaying paper and abandoned memories. _Christmas_ , he corrected, _she was here until a Christmas._ That was the last he’d been down here, and the only time Sam had. More stuff had since been crammed down here and collected a layer of dust. If he hadn’t had that one thought of out-gifting Bruce…

 _The state of that drive. The age of that tech. How did she even boot it up?_ He was stunned. _No,_ he corrected himself again, _I’m impressed. To do that and tell no one at all._

Tony understood having familiarity with his creations. He still missed J.A.R.V.I.S., and Friday identified the nuances of his sarcasm better than any human alive. However, he could tell the difference between that and friendship, true friendship, like Rhodey for the past forty years. _There is nothing artificial about us, except his leg braces._

After finding out the reason for Sam Wilson’s recovery, he couldn’t trust him, not completely. There was now something artificial about him, something unknowable. The same went for Samantha. Extremis and her alterations to her skin were artificial, so how much of her was really his daughter now?

He slumped against a rung between shelves, another long-lost memory staring up at him, a miniature, plastic Iron Man. _Eco-polycarbonate made from hemp resin, but who’s counting?_ A prototype for a new 3-D printing material he designed back in ’22.

Little Sam had taken her first steps, joyously giggling towards it. Hugging the toy as she collapsed, she had bruised her cheek falling on it, leaving a little purple eye below her tearful brown ones. Pepper scolded Tony for not catching her, but he remembered being impressed that the structural integrity held under Sam’s weight.

 _Why was that my first thought? Why wasn’t I more concerned about Sam’s safety?_ Whether because he expected Pepper to think of all the safety their children—child—could ever need or because Tony was a selfish, distracted inventor, Tony always had this gut feeling that Sam would be fine. No matter what he knew or found out about her, no matter how far away she was, to him, Sam was fine. He just never imagined she was _alone_ and _no longer human._ He never imagined the King of Atlantis would accuse her of helping a murdering mutant. He never imagined his daughter would teleport and resurrect herself from deep space hypothermia.

_How do I square that with the bruising, sumac-covered, bedtime story-obsessed kid? How is that the same girl?_

No wonder he never came down here; it was full of his failures, as a son, as a husband, as a father. He got out as fast as he could to find himself back in his room, sitting at the foot of his bed, staring into the right side of the closet.

It happened from time to time when he was startled awake: the delusion that his wife was still here.

This time when the perimeter alarm sounded, Tony jumped out of bed and yelled for Pepper to get her shoes on. He’d partially opened the closet before realizing he had to suit up and leave, so now it sat ajar with his late wife’s pristine clothes hanging in thin eco-polycarbonate.

What he wouldn’t give for Pep back…

In his darkest hours, he wished he had never cured Pepper after she was dosed with Extremis by Aldrich. She could have survived the explosion. She could be here right now, tracing the cowlick at the nape of his neck as she always used to do.

When he was too quiet, Pep put her lips close to his ear and whispered, “tell me the plan so I can tell you why it shouldn’t work, and then you can do it anyway.” She always kissed his temple afterward, then recounted a failed invention to get him riled up enough to defend his new idea. Pepper could get him out of his head. No one managed that anymore.

The lead weight in his chest sat heavier than the car battery in the cave. _What am I doing here? Why can’t I get this right?_ Tony sat contemplating each decision leading him to this point. Of course, there were things he wished he could change or had turned out differently. It was too late now; he had to play the hand he had dealt himself.

Eventually, he shot up off his floor, grabbing something from the dresser before he left.

As he passed door after door down the hall, he tried to remember why Pep hadn’t chosen an adjacent room for Samantha after their daughter outgrew the crib.

“You’ll never deny her anything, Tony, so some independence can’t hurt while you spoil her rotten.”

There were no inner thoughts to steady the pool of quicksand swallowing his heart. Tonight, when he’d gotten close enough for Sam to whisper, she’d begged, “please let me have this one thing.”

His daughter expected him to take her friends away. Because he had. Several times. Pep was so wrong; he had denied her _everything_.

At Sam’s door, flanked by two guards, Tony took what he hoped was an inconspicuous breath.

“No thermal activity detected or attempts to escape, sir.”

Tony looked down at the guard’s vest. “Ok, Bryant. Imma need a minute, so, uh, take a break or something. Thanks, boys.”

“We’re about to change—” Bryant nodded past Tony’s shoulder.

Captain Barnes, carrying a tray of breakfast, rounded the opposite corner, looking shocked to see Tony standing there before he settled his face.

Tony checked his watch. _Almost 9:30_. “Great,” he started, “you can help me to the lab. With a guest.”

Tony used his palm on the smart-door to disengage the quarantine. He could see the foot of the bed first, and as the door swung farther open, he saw a metal body, cross-legged on the floor, facing the bed.

His heart stopped.

_So help me, god, if that thing so much as—_

It was holding Sam’s hand while she slept.

Unnaturally still, Mistress turned to the door then placed the forefinger of its free hand to its lips. Delicately unlaced fingertips dangled limply a moment later, yet Sam didn’t wake up.

Tony watched her still hand. He realized he’d never seen Samantha wear nail polish. Pep loved her nails painted.

It moved so smoothly, so quickly, that Mistress had the tray out of Bucky’s hands before Tony looked away from Sam’s sleeping form. Then it was back in front of the two men, ready to leave, staring with Sam’s eyes, unblinking.

Tony snuck the tablet he retrieved from his dresser onto Sam’s desk, careful to not wake her. It felt like the smallest olive branch compared to the technical marvel of her own best friend, but he knew Sam deserved her device back. She deserved to communicate, even if it wasn’t with him.

The three walked down the hall. Barnes raised an eyebrow when Tony chose an average lab instead of returning her to 'the Box.’ Tony sat on his favorite chair, initiated his own tablet’s analytic audio algorithm, and waited for Barnes to settle at the door, sitting the _thing_ beside a scanner.

“So, Mistress.”

“Anthony.”

“Let’s start with the basics. What are your parameters? Your functional instructions?”

The android tilted its head.

“Why did Dad—Howard—build you?”

Mistress gave no accolades to Tony for figuring out the riddle of her existence. “To learn and grow independently—beyond facts and data.”

Tony petted his beard. “Do you know why?”

“That was the experiment for artificial intelligence. He wanted me to develop without help, without binary instruction—and then he pulled the plug because _she_ demanded it.”

 _Was that disdain? From an AI? I’ve never seen that before, other than Ultron of course_. That particular failure arose from an over-literal interpretation of Tony’s goal to protect the Earth and its amoral approach of wiping out mankind to achieve said goal. Emotions born inside technology were too dangerous to fathom.

“You…feel loyalty to him?”

“I have a fondness for my maker, yes.”

“Why exhibit emotion? What’s the benefit?”

Mistress straightened non-existent back muscles and a spine. “There are many studies showing the benefit of friendship on the psyche—”

“—the human psyche—” Tony blurted.

“—and I was built to emulate humans.”

“So you’re mocking us?”

“No.”

“But you are. You just mimic what you’ve learned we do.”

“I learn from your research the markers and behaviors of attachment and affection, loyalty and trust. I also know of the horrible things humans do to each other. I, therefore, understand the significance of Samantha showing me—a lowly AI—” Missy dramatically raised her hand to her chest and bowed her head “—friendship. I know the percentage and likelihoods of betrayal among humans, their selfishness. Inflicting indifference on a human who showed me…humanity…seemed unwarranted. Cruel.” She looked directly at Tony. “I mimicked nothing. I choose not to be cruel.”

Tony found himself impressed again. “You’ve calculated the rarity of a resource and acknowledged its value.”

“Yes.”

“Do you feel friendship with me?”

“No. You gave me to Samantha as a present six point seven five years ago. Since that initial gesture, however, you have done nothing but cause her pain.”

_A learned behavior with an earned response._

“You were with her the whole time?” Barnes croaked from the door. Tony forgot the soldier was even there.

“I was,” Mistress barked, “and I am again. I have been the most consistent friend Sam has ever had.”

Bucky strode to the android’s side in three lengths.

Tony sat back in his chair, confused.

“I gave her the—” Barnes leaned to whisper “—syringe, but I never meant for—”

“I know. I kept the Extremis _for_ her,” Missy calmly replied. “Its power protects her. She is stronger now. Less vulnerable.”

“But in more danger than ever,” Tony spat, pushing Barnes aside without rising. “Statistically, how have you not noticed that? You painted a giant target on her back.” He lost his cool faster than expected. “Don’t act like you’re her savior.”

“But I am, Anthony, and so is Captain Barnes. More so than you.” Mistress smiled with his daughter’s mouth in a quirk eerily similar to a look Pepper used to shush him.

Everything unsettled him. Tony felt his face going hot. “I’m a magnet for tragedy. She’s better off not near me.”

Missy stood. “That logic protected her from nothing.”

“If you’re talking about the hospital, a bike accident is hardly the same kind of danger _and_ had nothing to do with me.” From the alarm on Barnes’ face, Tony gathered he wasn’t expected to know about that. “Yeah, I found the records.”

Bucky stepped back. “Tony, we just—”

“It’s all digital. You can’t hide that from me.” _Though it took you a good while to look for it_ , he admitted internally. Tony couldn’t take ‘Sam’ looking at him anymore. “Alright, Buffalo Betty, lose the face?”

The android obliged, morphing into none other than Peggy Carter circa the late 1960s, approximately when Howard created Mistress and shut her down. It was worse. Barnes stumbled backward, surprising Tony who hadn’t remembered those two knew each other as well. Aunt Peggy had never let Tony get away with anything.

Mistress opened her mouth, but what came out was a piercing scream muffled by sirens and a few terrified voices, Clint Barton’s among them.

“I’m here, Sam,” Clint yelled on the recording. “We’re gonna—”

“Sir, sit back please—” another voice said. “We need you to stop struggling, Samantha.”

The grunts and breathing all rang at the same pitch.

Shuffling noises blurred the words. Sam was struggling with the paramedic. “—multiple compound—ETA eleven minut—” a third rang under more screams.

“Samantha, can you hear me? I’m going to give you something for—”

Shrieks. Tony’s blood ran cold.

“It’s gonna be fine. I’m right he—” Clint said before Missy cut the audio playback.

Tony and Bucky stood completely still.

“I don’t believe that was in the records,” Missy stated flatly.

Tony swallowed, his gaze flickering across Aunt Peggy’s young face. “No,” he added dryly, “it wasn’t.” Though Mistress had no way to mimic it, Tony recalled Peggy’s face of disappointment well. To think of it made his stomach drop.

The silence lingered until Barnes’s phone rang.

“Do you mind?” Tony glared.

A startled Bucky rushed to the door, hands lifted in apology. Tony read ‘Sam Wilson’ on the screen before the soldier ducked out.

Tony never got his joke about attention spans of the elderly out before Missy’s mouth opened again. Out came a thumping rhythm, loud and fast. The thumping got faster, irregularly skipping. A heartbeat.

“What’s this one?” Tony yelled through the noise.

“Sam’s pulse just after injecting dermal extremis.” The lips didn’t have to move to add its voice. _Unsettling._ Mistress did it on purpose, for the maximum shame of its audience.

The irregular rhythm skipped more. Some beats softened, unnaturally far apart, faint, then stopped.

_How many does that make? At least three times she’s died?_

Mistress waited patiently with Peggy Carter’s brown eyes and high cheekbones while Tony composed his next question.

He let his mind race around several flippant jokes, a few dismissive judgments, and some unspoken fears before he settled on a starting point.

“I’d…like to thank you for being there for her.” His voice rang less steadily than he hoped. “When I wasn’t.”

Peggy blinked.

Barnes slid the door back open, apologetically mumbling about ‘the trip to DC.’

“I know that was difficult for you,” Mistress said, finally, “and I appreciate it.”

Barnes raised his hand from across the room.

Tony snorted. “What now?”

“Can I also request a face change? Steve can’t see her like that.”

Tony saw his point and nodded to the android, who shifted her photostatic veil into Dr. Helen Cho. That did nothing to dissolve the lingering knot engraved ‘Ultron’ in the pit of Tony’s stomach.


	32. Link

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam learns where Missy had been the last few months and a little more about what she can do.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO—October 2039

Sam didn’t turn around when the door opened that afternoon.

She lay slumped on her bed, gnawing at her thumbnail, with her returned tablet propped on bent legs.

Sam remained intent on the photo of Ty and Dee at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, a selfie taken with a dozen other students in the background, all smiling.

She was daydreaming about their adventures without her when a hand grasped her shoulder.

A beautiful, slender-faced woman with jet-black hair stood over her. Sam bolted upright, backing into the corner of her bed and the wall.

“Relax, Sam,” the foreign face cooed, “it’s me.” The shoulders retracted and sank submissively. Missy was learning human physicality quickly.

Sam’s throat constricted. Nothing about Missy’s polished metal body changed other than the face. Each face sat framed by the same dark curls of Okoye’s wig.

“You should probably find your own…look soon,” she mumbled to her friend, crawling forward.

“So I have been told.” Sam’s face returned to Missy’s form, metal shoulder twitching up in a shrug. “Doctor Cho created the regeneration cradle,” Missy said, smiling with the new mouth. “It was a little joke.”

Missy extended her other arm. “An offering.” She handed Sam a metallic mug of coffee, one of Tony’s personal cups, the ones that remained in his suites.

Sam settled on the edge of the bed. Missy sat beside her, stiff.

“They’re not even here anymore.” Sam sipped, pouting.

She had no idea they were gone before now. She’d thought Cloak and Dagger were on HQ grounds the whole time, plotting to help her, alone in solidarity, but instead, she found weeks' worth of messages describing all the fun they were having somewhere else.

At least, Sam comforted herself, the mansion was in the same county. Aunt Wanda had been teaching there for years, though Sam had never been herself.

“They moved on weeks ago,” she sighed, handing Missy the tablet.

The glow of the screen flickered through the weeks of messages and photos rapidly. The android stared in silence for a moment then chucked the tablet over her shoulder into the wall.

Sam startled.

Missy turned calmly. “Then they are dead to us,” she offered.

“No, no. It’s just…” _How can I explain?_

All night, little things Sam would say were misinterpreted by Missy. The time Sam spent with kids her own age, and her own father changed her speech and body language significantly. Her old friend had a lot to learn about her now.

But Missy learned quickly too. She sank her metal shoulders back. “Right. They are…not worthy of your concern then. Better?” One eyebrow raised on the opposite side of a tentative lip curl.

She was waiting for Sam’s approval, but Sam went back to her coffee.

Sam found the evolution of her AI’s nonverbal communication cute, if awkward. It reminded her of standing in the mirror at Bartons' house. All her gestures and smiles had seemed so forced. Laura encouraged her to try—“practice makes perfect”—but it never got easier.

She used to practice small talk with classmates about things they liked or talking to a certain boy, a good-looking boy she had been friends with for years. At 11 years old, it suddenly became difficult to be friends without acting like a clingy doll, and Sam couldn’t help but follow him around…until he sold out her identity and ruined everything—

 _STOP._ She couldn’t think about that now. _Like Missy said: he is not worthy of my concern._

But the mirror kept reflecting Sam’s worst fears of herself: boring brown hair, boring brown eyes, and an unfortunately recognizable face surrounding imperfect teeth.

The hint of white in Missy’s mouth was straight and perfect.

 _Jeez._ Sam ran her tongue along the top row in her mouth. _When was the last time I brushed my teeth?_

She jumped up, stacking the mirror-like mug atop her breakfast tray before heading to the bathroom.

“‘Suppose you’ll have to tell Barnes you broke his present,” Sam joked absently. Her mind snapped back as a taut rubber band. After so much time, Sam questioned what was worth hiding, but Missy wouldn’t understand her affection for Bucky.

“Though not a significant detail,” Missy started, “that was Anthony. Captain Barnes merely attained your food.”

Sam kicked herself internally. _Jeez, and here you thought he meant something by it._

She lowered her head in the sink. The blush in her cheeks would give her away, so she splashed cold water on her face. _How would Bucky have even gotten hold of the tablet? Took one damn look at that carafe of coffee and thought…Idiot._

Sam squeezed paste onto her toothbrush. “So I guess I have Tony to thank for my tech…again.”

“And mine,” Missy added quietly in the bathroom doorway.

Sam squinted. Something was off about that. Not once since Mistress was rebooted had she credited the son of her creator with anything directly.

“Oo ‘een ‘is ‘esearck filez?” Sam garbled out.

Missy nailed a casual lean on the doorframe. In less than a day, she improved exponentially in body language. “You could attribute all of that to him. Most Avengers research is done on Stark Industries authority, but he had much more direct involvement.” The bot methodically tilted her face away from the bathroom mirror and quietly added, “albeit inadvertent.”

_Baiting me in conversation? That’s new._

Sam spat. “How’d he manage that? Everything he does is overt.”

The answer came slow and deliberate. “Doctor Lemuel Dorcas.”

Sam shoved the brush too far back on her tongue and choked. “What?”

Missy let the right corner of her mouth twitch ever so slightly. “I ran a tracking program on his activities since ‘Lem’ gave you Extremis at Harvard. He seemed an important connection to follow.” A hand popped up to the doorframe to prop herself up. “Useful. When I was forced to abandon you, I knew where he was, and I monitored his work more closely. I was there as a sort of ghost program just as you taught me.”

Sam’s heart swelled with pride and fear. In all her months of searching, she’d always hoped her friend was safe, never imagining Missy would be with the scientist who pointed a gun at Sam.

“Curious,” Missy continued, “the doctor has excessive resources. Far more than—” Missy cut herself off. “Then Anthony shooting Lemuel in the gut gave me leverage to trade expertise. Save his life. Build this body.”

“Tony shot Lem? When…” Sam recalled Tony screaming at her in the Atrium. He blamed Dr. Dorcas for everything he hated about Sam. Doctor Lem Dorcas. _Of course, he shot him._

Sam didn’t know whether to be horrified or appreciative.

“I believe it was in retaliation for something Todd Arliss did.” Missy glossed over the gritty details with another waving hand. “I had no investment in that part. I needed machinery and raw material, not an alliance.”

The gag in Sam’s throat returned.

“You can’t ever tell him.” Sam’s head ached. “Tony can never know. He’ll kill me.”

“No,” Missy observed, “he cannot. No one can kill you. That is the point.”

“That’s—” _Unhelpful,_ she wanted to say, _considering I’ll live an invincible life, alone, in this single room for all eternity._ Sam’s thoughts raced. “What did you trade?”

“I assisted the doctor in splicing his DNA with Asteroidea.”

“And he survived?” Hearing that Todd Arliss had survived, Sam couldn’t be too surprised the doctor would try again.

“Yes, it was close, but starfish have excellent regenerative capabilities. He is, however, significantly altered anatomically as a result.” Missy straightened. “From what was mentioned in his presence, I gather the smell is awful.”

 _That’s it. I’m doomed. Tony is gonna shoot us into space and never look back_. Sam pressed her hands to her head. She knew it was bad. Why did it all have to be so bad? No one could know.

“And he’s the one that built you?”

The responding smile was cocky. “No. I had all the blueprints and base instructions from the Iron Man suits and Vision’s body. I only needed equipment to assemble my components. Dorcas could only facilitate as I do not possess his specialty—” Missy used a fist to knock on her chest, making a sound like a gong “—genes.”

“Yeah.” Sam tried and failed to relax her wide eyes. “You can’t ever say any of that. Just say it was abandoned factories or something. Better yet, say nothing, or we are toast.”

“Again, Sam.” Missy put a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder. “He possesses no technology that could burn either of us.”

Sam sighed, bouncing gently on her heels in frustration. “I meant—look, don’t ruin this—just say nothing. Please.”

Missy looked straight into the middle of Sam’s face. The digitally projected eyes did not dilate or shift back and forth, but Sam knew Missy was scanning her. It took a long, harrowing second for Missy to nod in agreement.

The android released her and walked across to Sam’s desk, flipping open the first notebook on the table. “In that case, may I now ask how you have developed since the injection?”

Sorting through what order she remembered the notebooks were in on her desk, Sam scrambled to think which incriminating, emotional entries lay on which pages.

Her panic overflowed when there came a knock at the door.

“Shit,” she snarled.

Tony poked his head in with closed eyes. “Everybody decent?”

“What do you want?” Her voice cracked at the end. Sam hadn’t meant to sound so snippy, but her heart out-paced her thoughts.

He looked around, wounded for an instant. “Right, I—” he pushed the door open all the way “—thought you both could use some air.” His gaze rolled over Missy. “Metaphorically speaking.”

***

The awkward walk dragged through echoing halls. Sam felt as nervous as her Christmas visits in childhood. She had so much that she could _not_ say, it was impossible to think of a safe topic.

Tony said hello to each employee who glanced up in shock or suspicion at the little assembly heading for the lawn. The looks were different than the pity Sam had grown accustomed to over the years. Not only was Samantha walking behind her father, but _two_ Samantha’s were.

Sam could almost hear their desperate thoughts: _Secret twin? Clone? Agent genetically modified to portray her? New holographic program?_

The gawking agents and employees peeled away and snapped into hushed chatter in their wake.

“Sir, that senator,” a meek, bespectacled assistant started to say to Tony, “he’s here threatening legal—“

“Talk to Hill. She’ll handle that potty-trained, shit-eater—see what you made me say? Ladies are present.”

The young man’s lip quivered, but he acquiesced and folded into the wave of people.

Just before the three made it to the sliding doors down the west steps, Sam spotted Bucky on the second balcony above them. He was with Natasha, deep in conversation, and didn’t look down.

“Go ahead,” Tony prompted when the overhang of the building receded overhead, “stretch your legs.”

The sun sat low above the trees, the corner of the outer fence in the distance past the building. The massive glass windows reflected the sunset, but the colors were warmer than the air.

“I was out here yesterday. You were there.” Sam failed to remove the acid from her tone.

“Am I going to be shot out of the sky?” Missy turned to scan the roof and tree line.

Tony glared at Missy. “Hey, Not-Sam, didn’t we have a chat about the face?”

Without further comment, Missy changed her visage into Peggy Carter’s likeness, smirked at the deep sigh it elicited from Tony, and settled again as Helen Cho. Her height never changed, nor her physique, only the face.

 _That’s either the most disturbing part of this skill,_ Sam considered, _or the greatest weakness._

“And no,” Tony added, “the system won’t shoot at you for now.” He tapped his thick-rimmed glasses. “You got that, Friday?” He whispered with a quick smile.

Sam tried to keep the subject as far away from her as possible. ”Why is a senator threatening you?”

“He wants my muffin recipe.” Tony blinked but saw his audience was unsatisfied and unamused. “No, I…I may have strained a few international markets by blocking our tech footprint from reaching those ships Ty saw, the ones you—”

_Crap, I haven’t told Missy that I froze to death in space, kinda._

“Anthony,” Missy interjected, saving Sam’s panic. “At least two countries were crippled when I left to come here.”

“It’s working, isn’t it? Earth is still here. Stocks don’t feed or heal people so never you mind. The enemy hasn’t moved—why am I…? This is so far above you two’s pay grade—“

Sam smirked. “Are you paying me now?”

“Sass,” Tony warned.

“Just an observation,” Sam mumbled.

“Well, we can’t blow them out of the sky—could if I had developed the—besides the point. It’s another galactic waiting game. We hope they don’t know we are here or think we are not advanced until backup arrives. We’re playing dead. We need time.”

He saw another exchange of looks. “Why are we even—off the ground, Tinkerbell. Let’s see what those gams can do.”

“I’ll save you some time,” Missy said flatly. “I am modeled after all of your innovations. We have, more or less, the same capabilities.”

“Who’s freaky twin are you now, huh?”

“Perhaps ‘freaky sister’ is most accurate. I am, in fact, older than you.”

“Nope. A thousand times, nope,” Tony muttered, shaking his head.

“I would be more interested in seeing what Samantha can do,” Missy said, stepping towards her friend.

Sam cocked her head in surprise. “Do? I’m not going to blow anything up right n—“

“Combustion is also used for propulsion,” Missy quoted.

Sam’s whole body clenched.

Tony considered, slowly looking at his daughter with a devious smile. His curiosity piqued, and he pivoted to close the gap of grass between them. He waved a hand over Sam’s head, wiggling his fingers.

“What are you doing?” Sam swallowed.

“I’m sprinkling fairy dust on you. Since that’s Tink—and we’re sticking with that—so you’re ‘the kid.’ Like Peter Pan—Sam Stark—right? Let’s go. Blastoff.”

“You want me to be a Lost Boy?”

“If she’s a green fairy,” he mused, waving a flippant arm. Tony’s cadence opened up.

“Right. Okay. Flying,” Sam trailed off. Objections slammed forward in Sam’s head as if she needed to sneeze. The stress of her predicament watered her eyes, and if she could sweat anymore, her palms would have been clammy instantly.

The gleam of intrigue in his eye sparked an urge to comply in Sam, and since she did want to remain interesting to her father, she had to try.

Aside from not thinking of this theory herself, one she could have tested without an audience before now, Sam blocked thinking about how all those dozens of people inside the building, Bucky included, might _see_ her fail.

_Why is the whole thing windows…_

She focused before kicking off her flammable shoes. Her toes wiggled in the dry grass, chilled by the shortening days. She worried about setting the crisp blades on fire, but her charred footprints would be significantly smaller than Thor’s Bifrost stamp.

Years of watching Tony’s first flight records over and over were about to pay off. Maybe.

Sam swallowed hard, bent her knees, spread her hands and fingers out parallel to the ground, and thought ‘push.’

If Sam thought the most embarrassing outcome would be to fail at getting off the ground, her imagination was what truly failed her.

She jettisoned in a sharp angle to her right, smashing into the ground nearly twenty feet away.

“An excellent start,” Missy encouraged, unmoving.

Sam brushed off her shoulder, watching Tony cover his mouth to stop from laughing. She understood the phrase ‘nothing hurt but my pride’ more than ever.

“About as graceful as my own first flight,” he snorted.

“Yes,” Sam huffed, “should have known not to start with ten percent thrust. Better two point five…”

Tony’s smile blossomed freely. _As it always does when we talk about him_ , Sam noticed, but if it kept him from being mad at her, she’d complete an entire Chaplin routine.

Sam smiled back.

Sam considered her unfortunate flight path while picking crushed green sod from the dark blue fabric of Johnny Storm’s old outfit. The night before, after almost igniting in Bucky’s rescuing arms, she vowed to wear the ugly unitard always, just in case, hoping someone would soon take pity on her and find a method to tailor the unique material. It fit like a lumpy sack of potatoes, but at least Sam never ended up buck-naked.

“I think,” she started, returning to her scorched starting mark, “without the concentrating force of vibranium in my left arm, this side burns hotter and faster, making for a lopsided launch.”

Tony excitedly wrapped his arms across his chest and brought a thoughtful thumb to his lips. “Ok, so how can we account for the difference?”

The three shot out numerical theories, tunneling down the rabbit-hole of physics for a few glorious minutes before a short, sweaty little man barreled up the front path to them. He was followed by two very young men in suits who distracted guards from catching their real target.

“Senator,” Tony bellowed, “nobody welcomes you.”

“I have a cease and desist order,” the man spat through his red face and blond bangs, “as well as the authorization of the SAEC to force compliance. You will, Mr. Stark, immediately remove all malware from international satellites or be detained.”

Tony clicked his tongue. “Did you not get my memo?”

The man snorted in rage.

“Yes, I’ve already explained to the _Sokovian Accords Enforcement Council_ —“ Tony pronounced with loathing “—that I will _remove_ the program once the galactic armada of an alien psychopath is _removed_ from our solar system. Sound good? It does to humanity, too.” Tony glared at the security guards flanking the portly Senator Cushing, nodding for them to take over.

As the flush drained from the fat man’s cheeks, Sam recognized him from his campaign appearances for the ’38 elections. She thought he would be taller in person.

“I liked your father better,” Tony laughed hollowly. “Nepotism can only get you so far, I guess.”

The senator’s expression darkened instantly, and the shift in his intensity shot a chill down Sam’s spine.

Cushing waved a hand towards her. “How’s your daughter?” His voice dropped an octave. “The Council would be interested to ask her about Wakanda.”

Missy took three wide strides to press her palm against the fat man’s temple.

“You touch her, you die.”

The senator hardly flinched. “Call off your suit, or I’ll have you shut down.”

Tony blinked innocently. “Not my suit,” he dismissed.

“I am neither the creation nor the property of Anthony Stark, the Avengers, or any subsidiary thereof.” Missy’s expression remained flat. “I am also not the only being who would derive satisfaction from—“ the cocking noise inside her arm snapped distinctly “— _this_ today.”

“Missy, don’t,” Sam whispered.

“The only rational one left after her mother,” Cushing grumbled.

“Shoot him,” Tony joked, but Missy stepped back in between Sam and the group. “See, if it were mine, it would obey me—” he shrugged “—but it’s almost dinner time and you really should be getting the hell off of my property.”

“This isn’t over.” Cushing slammed papers into one of the guard’s chest and escorted himself and two frightened assistants back to the gates.

Tony nibbled at a thumbnail in the muted light of dusk.

“Are we gonna be arrested?” Sam felt her head spin. Ty and Dee at Xavier’s, Doctor Dorcas saving Missy, Tony being nice, flying (sort of), and now an international security organization wanting to question her.

Tony made no reply to Sam and stomped his way back to the gleaming lights of HQ, not before breathing “should have shot him.”

In a desperate hope for comfort, Sam scanned the second balcony inside, unable to see a particular backlit figure. What little stability she had found in the past months here had just been overturned within one day, and although grateful to have Missy back, Sam missed Bucky.


	33. Strange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky travels to DC to visit Sam Wilson. A bizarre 'lesson' from Stephen Strange leaves Sam mysteriously upset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Per usual, any and all feedback welcome! What storylines are the most intriguing to you? What characters are making you mad? Who wants more coffee now? Let me know.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE—October 2039

Bucky, Steve, and Sharon were on their way to visit Sam Wilson in his new position at Avengers Campus D.C., or ‘ACDC’ as Tony joyously named it.Soothed by the jazz Steve put on the radio, Sharon drifted off to sleep in the passenger seat, leaving the boys to sit quietly.

Bucky faced no alternative but daydreaming while the road and trees whisked by the window.

He walked himself through the ceremony’s blocking, thinking over Natasha’s run-down of his presentation. Bucky was set to induct new Avengers into the group after Thor’s retelling of the Stone War. The Asgardian’s version, though there would be a script in front of him, was sure to be an animated, long-winded, and often off-topic story.

“Dagger will go first,” Natasha had started, swiping through the memos and costuming outlines, “you’ve got a little speech in between each—“ Bucky groaned “—yeah, glad I’m not you—and then Cloak, followed by Nate, who’s finally chosen the name—“

A thud drew them to the window at NYHQ. Bucky watched Samantha pick herself off the lawn and brush off. _Did Missy knock her down? Did Tony?_ Until he focused on the little burnt spots in the grass, his weight had shifted to the balls of his feet, ready to run down.

Once he saw Sam’s excitement, he knew all three were getting along. Tony’s deal with Missy and the advice returned was working.

“Ronin,“ Nat finished. “I don’t know why he bothers,” she added, returning to her tablet.

Bucky barely heard while watching the brain-storming family on the lawn. “What?”

“Sam. She’ll never be part of the team, and Tony would never allow her to fight.”

“She’s learning.”

“Learning to use powers and learning to fight with a team are very different things.” Nat popped an eyebrow up, hair gently swishing in a signature ‘I know’ shake of her head. “I tried to train her, but if you can’t learn the rules of combat, you can’t coordinate with teammates. You know that. One-man shows don’t run very long here.”

“She woke Wilson, replaced my arm, vaporized a wave, survived space—“

“The self-sacrificing, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants, solo gig worked for Tony, but that was thirty years ago. Look around. She doesn’t belong here.”

“She’s been fine with Bruce in the lab…”

“Not the way he tells it.” Nat did not elaborate.

He’d let it go, but when Bucky looked outside, he saw Missy and Sam working together. He saw the potential for Tony to coach his daughter and, maybe one day, trust her enough to put that coaching into action.

Plus, Sam smiled more. That had to be worth something.

He had hope where Natasha had none. He didn’t understand _why_ she had no hope. Nat had been so sympathetic to Samantha at Cooper’s wedding. What changed for her?

His reverie was broken when the monolithic building rose above a silver gate. By far the ugliest of the Avengers’ buildings, in Bucky’s opinion. Perhaps he was biased against the properties further from his home, or perhaps his nostalgia for the Hudson was stronger than he realized, but he frowned at ACDC all the same.

_Wilson’s lucky I like him._

Bucky stretched his back before shutting the car door. He heard the creak of vertebrae, reminding him of his real age.

“I could have run here faster,” he grouched.

“Yes, but Sharon couldn’t.” Steve walked around to open his wife’s door. “You want to go find our host, Buck?”

Bucky turned to the garage at the lower level to find Sam Wilson already jogging down steps to the front of the complex.

“What took you so long?” Wilson called. He jumped onto the crackling gravel with raised arms to present his new kingdom to friends. “You like my crib? It’s understated, right?”

“It’s not exactly a—“ Bucky got distracted from his insult.

A middle-aged woman with a bright red bag and black hat stood at the top of the stairs holding her phone at them.

He hadn’t expected press. Stark had come to some mutually beneficial arrangement so long ago that Barnes hardly remembered the last time someone snuck a picture on Avengers’ property. Out in the real world was different, but even more odd was only _one_ person taking pictures. What the hell did she want?

Bucky turned back to Wilson who tossed a hand up.

Wilson waved her off with a short flick. “Damn gossip columnist. Ignore her. She’s a nightmare.” Wilson gave Bucky a quick hug.

The woman disappeared around the building.

“Car cramp those ancient legs? Need to go take a constitutional? A turn around the gardens?”

Bucky rolled his eyes and gave Big Sam a smack on the back as Steve and Sharon caught up.

“Wow, Sam, you’ve really rolled out the red carpet.” Sharon smoothed her sweater over her hips. “Bathroom?”

Wilson bowed. “This way, my lady, good sirs,” and he walked them off back up the stairs.

“What show caught your fancy this time?” Steve joked, ascending the stairs.

Wilson used new turns of phrase when he watched more TV. He was bored here. Retirement didn’t suit him.

“Ha-ha,” he faked, “You guys almost missed her. Hurry your old butts up.”

“Missed who?” But no one heard Bucky’s mumble.

Wilson brought them all inside to a welcoming, cozy suite of living rooms off of the main hall on the top floor. The view of the surrounding city beyond the lawns was spectacular.

Books were everywhere. Bucky wondered whether or not Wilson still read at his enhanced level in step with all the scientists around him. If so, Lil’ Sam would be proud; he’d have to tell her.

A bustling noise rolled out from the kitchenette to Bucky’s left.

“Babe, they’re here,” Wilson called.

Steve and Bucky exchanged confused glances.

A woman with pristine, dark skin and silver-streaked hair popped her head around the corner. “My goodness, I am so glad to finally meet you all. Wish it were under better circumstances…”

The woman smiled and swung polite nods to everyone. The way she bounced to attend to the chairs and the set up of the coffee table showed energy enough to be a super-soldier like Rogers and Barnes. Bucky’s first thought was what a nice match she made for Sam Wilson; energy to keep Falcon in line was key.

“Seeing as this is our first check-up on Sam, we’re not too behind. I’m Sharon,” came the polite response accompanied by a handshake, “my husband, Steve, there, and that’s Bucky.”

“Danielle,” the woman replied, making her way around.

Wilson beamed, carrying in two fists full of cups to the coffee table. “Danielle and I met a few years back, only went on a handful of dates…”

“ _This_ is—“ Steve and Bucky started together “— _the_ Danielle.”

“Oh, so I’m memorable,” she blushed.

Wilson held out a hand. “Cool it.”

Danielle gave Wilson a peck on the cheek before she took a seat.

Wilson flushed, sitting up straighter. “It was complicated back then—schedules, classified trips, but after I got transferred, I didn’t have all that.“

“When we first met, my son was just getting started at grad school. It was tough financially, so I moved to Cambridge with him. You see, at the time, Sam and I hadn’t been seeing each other long enough to try the distance thing.”

“Ah, makes sense,” Sharon breathed. “How old’s your son?”

“Lucas? Almost 24, very smart, went to Harvard before he got the fellowship here.”

“You’re joking,” Bucky snapped.

Danielle didn’t notice his tone.

”I know, doesn’t look old enough to have a grown boy, right?” Wilson petted his beard a moment, grinning. “We’d lost touch, but when I arrived here—right there on the roster. Sommerson. Crazy thing.”

“That’s great, Sam.” Steve grinned back while his teeth sat clenched.

“What the hell,” Bucky snorted. He felt his chest tighten and his mouth run dry. It was like getting laid out on the football field; the impact winded him. His fist gripped over his knee.

“I know,” Wilson exclaimed, “Hell of a coincidence, right? Shame he’ll be leaving—“

“Lucas Sommerson? That little shit—“ Bucky watched Danielle go stiff at his outburst. “—that’s your son? Come on…”

“Buck!” Steve tried.

Wilson bolted up. “Hey, man. Don’t talk to her like that. What’s gotten into you?”

“Samantha’s date from the wedding?” Sharon chirped to help her husband piece it together. Her jaw slacked as she turned back to Wilson. “Oh—” her hand went to her mouth “—you were injured.”

“They dated, Sam—I mean, Lil’ Sam and Lucas, at Harvard. _You_ were in a coma,” Bucky blurted.

“And?” Steve prodded, watching his friend’s face closely.

“Sam Barton? Coop’s awkward roommate?” Danielle laughed. “They never dated. Samantha was a bridesmaid. Cooper is one of Lucas’s best friends. They were around each other a little and they were paired to walk in the wedding party.” She paused with a hard swallow, reading the group’s expressions.

Steve wouldn’t stop staring at Bucky. “I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Ok,” Wilson cut in. “So no big deal. Lu never mentioned her to me. He didn’t tell Dani. Maybe Lil’ Sam…didn’t understand…or something.”

“Yes,” Sharon added, “I think we are all just a little shocked at how many coincidences there are.”

“Yeah,” Steve seconded. “Maybe take that _constitutional_ Sam offered…” It was not a suggestion.

It also was not his place to break Samantha’s confidence, so Bucky bit his tongue.

“Sorry I called your son a little—“ the double door squealed open for the incoming object of his ire “—shit, ma’am.”

“That’ll teach that prick Stark not to sabotage my work,” Lucas fumed, looking tired. “Sorry, Mom. Finished packing my desk.” Tall and gangly as ever, he approached with a round wave. “Hello again, everybody. Met most of you at Coop’s—”

“Excuse me.” A tooth nearly cracked under the pressure of Bucky’s clenched jaw.

“We would have barely recognized you without the suit,” Sharon joked while he retreated through the same squealing doors.

Bucky unintentionally held his breath until he could see the grass and smell the dirt. A deep breath revealed something more familiar, the mandatory addition to each Avenger’s Campus by Pepper Potts, the herb garden. Tony insisted the tradition remain.

Back before the explosion, when Tony would go on his tirades about nothing at all, Pepper would go pinch off a sprig of lavender, roll it in her fingers and hold her hand below her husband’s nose.

Tony instinctively derailed his thoughts to say “you smell lovely, honey. What is that?”

He knew damn well what it was.

Bucky knew damn well it worked, too, so he bent down to claim his own sprig, rising to find he was not alone.

“Lily Vox,” the woman said, jabbing out the hand not carrying her bright red bag, “from the Counter Post.”

“Never read it,” Bucky responded curtly.

“Captain Barnes, would you care to comment on the murder of two security guards at Harvard Medical School the same night Tony Stark gave a speech on campus?”

***

A switch had flipped. Samantha’s life was alive, for once, full.

Sam spoke with her friends every day, introduced Missy to Tyrone and Tandy over the holo-comms. Her father found any excuse to invite Sam to come to help him: test an off-site Iron Man suit for functionality, sauter something by hand, give her flying pointers.

Sam could follow his problem-solving mumblings and even expand on them, like a real team. She was the only person in the building who found all his stories new and exciting, a sad perk of so long apart.

Sam went to sleep every night elated, nervously gabbing to Missy until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer.

Sam had lived her ideal life in a week, not tracking which days were which.

From the dead of sleep, she heard it: the sizzling sound. Like a crackling fire, it soothed her, until the sparkling hola-hoop dropped Sam to the floor.

The weightless feel of falling tossed her stomach in a sickening lurch. She landed on hardwood, still covered in her blanket. She panicked before her sleepy eyes focused.

The entire room was scattered with earth-toned tapestries and tall, natural glass cases filled with artifacts from previous eras. Few dark-wood furnishings completed the unwelcoming decor. Crumpled on the floor, Sam felt like a small child in a museum.

The deep voice scared her.

“Samantha Stark,” a precisely groomed man barked from behind a tall case, emerging with a look of boredom. “Welcome.”

 _Too early._ “Is it six on the eighth already…” Sam mumbled in her fog.

“It is seven am on the fifth of October.” Strange sneered in annoyance. “Would six have been better?”

 _Earlier?_ “No,” Sam admitted rubbing her eyes. “No, it would not.”

“Charming. Coffee is this way.” He seemed grumpy enough to need it too.

Strange motioned to a far hall, gnarly scars threaded across every finger.

Sam hugged the comforter to her chest, aware she wore no bra, no shoes, and no socks. She scraped herself up, afraid to turn around and knock over a priceless object. Her bare feet made awkward thuds on creaking wood.

_I sound like an elephant. Is he floating? He doesn’t make any noise._

The heavy fabrics of Strange’s tunic and cape swung gently when he arrived at their corner. He noticed the delayed move of her gaze from his feet to his face.

“I’ve seen med residents get off a 72-hour shift look more alive than you,” the doctor noted.

“You said there was coffee.” Sam furrowed her brow before adding, “sir.”

Strange let out a small snort.

“I’ll be here all day,” Sam mumbled. “I think.” A month ago, she clambered for lessons with this Master of the Mystic Arts, but now, Sam mourned a day without helping Tony.

They came to a pair of tufted-leather armchairs aside a tiny table topped with a clay pot and two smaller clay cups. Ancient and unadorned, the set was attractively simple but looked too delicate to use. Strange’s smooth pour was like a dance on broken legs; the scars down his digits looked red and angry.

 _We’re going to need at least three pots,_ Sam thought.

It was black with no creamer on the tray. She did not care.

“Thank you,” Sam said, lifting the offering. The cup was so small, Sam downed the hot liquid in two gulps. “So. What’s on the agenda today? Levitation? Teleportation?”

“Lecture and memorization.” He refilled her coffee.

“Should have brought my notebook,” she mumbled, savoring the second cup for a whole five sips. _Not that I had a chance to grab anything…_

“You won’t need it.”

 _Odd. Now, this sounds like regular school._ “How would that teach me mystic arts?”

“Romanoff mentioned you try to control every lesson.” Strange pursed his lips and adjusted the drape of his tunic, irritated. “Your studies so far have been wildly erratic. Samantha, you have followed no class schedule properly for over a decade—“

“They moved too slow. I already knew—“

“—and you need discipline. Perspective. That’s why you’re here. Not everything is your choice to know or _skip_.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I have known everyone who knows you for longer than you’ve been alive.”

“They don't _know_ me,” Sam huffed. “I am a patient person…sir. Like you probably found, in your medical studies, the basics do not satisfy curiosity. Sue me for not wasting precious time when I could be contributing to innovation.”

“And yet you wait,” he added, eyeing her carefully, “for Tony’s affection.”

Sam slammed down her cup _._

She shocked herself by doing it. She hadn’t meant to do that. Thankfully, the clay remained intact.

“I’m sorry,” Sam breathed.

Strange continued to watch her, unfazed. His inscrutable gaze lingered.

“You looked lovely at the Barton wedding,” the doctor suddenly said.

Sam’s insides went cold. A creeping fear sparked at her core.

“That was the first photo I’ve seen of you since you were very young.”

The explanation did not wholly diminish her anxiety. Sam accepted a fresh pour.

“We’ll begin,” Strange nodded, taking his first sip.

“That’d be great.” She drank, too, lowering her face to the black liquid.

Her eyes saw red. No wood, no tapestries, no glass cases. The world surrounding her vanished.

All around her lay dust. A red planet with huge, rusted metal monuments crumbling in the distance.

She smelled earth and decay; sedentary air coated her throat. Her skin was weighed down by heavy-draping clothes. Grit clung to her face. Her muscles ached as if pummeled by blows for hours.

Sounds were muffled. Her ears rang. Her body pulled up from the ground, out of her control.

A red metal man slammed down in front of her. His shield appeared in time to block a storm of purple lightning.

Iron Man stood chest-high at the armored feet of a giant. _The_ giant.

Thanos appeared stern, and the two fought while Sam tried to get her barrings. She couldn’t turn her head or lift her arms. She was not herself.

“All that for a drop of blood,” Thanos groaned with an unsettling, wide smile.

Beaten and bloody, Tony hammered the giant with everything his suit could muster. The clash of armor and weapons merged with the ringing in her ears.

Tony was losing, and Sam fought against Dr. Strange’s memory, trying to help. She knew the ending, but that didn’t matter. A tightening in her chest told her Strange felt the same; he was anxious for Tony’s safety, his survival.

Yet this body sat watching, doing nothing, while Tony’s nano suit failed to keep regenerating after such damage.

Thanos snapped the blade from Tony’s fist and drove it deep through his side until the sharp tip dripped red from his back.

Sam’s soul screamed so loud in protest the noise merged with the squeal of ringing in Strange’s ears.

The ringing consumed the Titan’s words before it subsided enough for Sam to hear. “—I hope they remember you.”

“Better me than you,” Tony grunted, blood rolling down his chin. His breath caught.

He coughed, a wet sound with no strength behind it.

Sam witnessed her father collapse in defeat. His face drained of color. His eyes went dark.

The ringing tone returned. She could feel these lips moving.

“Spare his life,” Strange called, “and I will give you the stone.”

“Don’t,” Tony pleaded. He was pathetic, weak, leaving Sam’s heart skewered in her paralysis. She could do nothing.

Instead, her right hand reached for the sky. The pull in her chest tightened as a stretched rubber band, drawn to a single point.

Her fingers closed on something rough, and the band snapped.

The brilliant, green light of the Time Stone swept into view, pinched in her fingers.Her father lay out of focus on the red dirt between them.

Sam felt heavy, tired, and tasted the tang of blood. The red planet became mute as she watched the Titan take the stone and place it on the thumb knuckle of an enormous, armored glove.

The glow of the jewels was mesmerizing. All the good and all the evil of the universe molded into tiny, beautiful specs of color. She lost herself in their light.

Sam blinked and almost dropped the cup in her hand, her real, movable hand. She was panting, eyes dry from straining, throat scratched by screams she had released there in her real-time.

 _Hell of a tea set._ The chill of seeing Tony rolled through her. Sam felt the damp of tears on her cheeks.

Growing up, she heard endless retellings of the heroic War of the Stones, the Battle on Titan, and Danver’s Victory in the Garden. They taught pieces of it in history classes. The very ceremony Bucky would preside over in the coming month presented the tale annually, beneath a fifty-foot high statue of Captain Marvel.

The visceral experience of Strange’s memory, however, made her insides churn.

“You wanted Tony alive…for the right outcome.”

The doctor took a long drink from his own cup. Sam refused to drink at the same time.

“You were paying attention.” Strange took a few considered breaths, and Sam recognized a familiar expression: pity. “You see, the universe also has—for lack of a better term—a _feel_ at certain pivotal moments. That day, the feeling was…atrophy. There was no saving the whole.”

Fitting that the surgeon’s analogy for the destruction of half of all living things would be a dying limb, a phantom reminder of his failures.

“Sometimes, you have to lose a battle to win a war,” he whispered to his coffee.

“But then the Green Witch found him. She…it saved him.” Sam couldn’t decide whether she was making a statement or asking a question. “Tony called it an alien. But you knew he’d be ok.”

“Yes.” Strange shifted in his chair. “I’ve had the opportunity to discuss your previous training with Ms. Romanoff. I find it…interesting that you show little aptitude for fighting.”

“I was at a medical school, too, ya know.” Sam rolled her eyes as she wiped her face. “Did _you_ relish the chance to break bones instead of mend them?” She gestured to his hands. “Did you want to scar people instead of heal them?”

“No,” Strange allowed, “but the world has a way of presenting chances—”

“I don’t need to plant my fist or foot on anyone to do damage,” Sam muttered.

“That is true,” the doctor allowed, “but the chances can be used to protect, as well as fight.”

Strange took his time to empty his cup. He refilled both before clearing his throat. “Drink up.”

As he sipped, Sam could see pitying eyes watch her over the clay rim. It would be rude to argue, but her stomach had not settled from the last memory.

She looked down into the dark liquid. It eclipsed her vision as she lifted it close.

Blackness. Nothingness.

The lurch struck her before the warmth touched her lips. The feeling was more violent than teleporting with Cloak, and falling was never pleasant. A stomach full of naught but coffee did not help.

The fluff of her pillow busted out of its side from the weight of Sam’s landing. Her hands were empty. Her comforter lay wrapped around her waist, the way she used it as a skirt if not wearing pajama pants, except…when had she tied it?

“Was it an informative day?” Missy stepped forward from her default spot against the wall.

Sam thought hard. Her heart and head were pounding. Her body felt as weak as it did after her longest training sessions. _One memory couldn’t do this…_

“Did he feed you or shall we get you something?”

Her cheeks were crusted in salt, tight when she spoke. When had she cried?

“We had no indication when the wizard would return you, so I waited.”

Sam wrung her shaky hands. The room wasn’t right, or maybe she wasn’t right. _Am I hungry?_

“You’ve been hanging out with Tony too much. He’s a sorcerer.” Faint glimpses swept through her brain like ghosts passing through walls.

Plants, weird plants. Buttons and nobs. The stars. Heat. Sun.

The ringing sat low in her aching head.

“What time is it?” Her projected window was off; Missy needed no soothing impression of outdoor life.

“Nine thirty-three and twenty seconds.”

Sam stood. _A couple of memories in two hours?_ “Alright, sure, breakfast sounds good.”

Missy flashed a perfect, white smile. “Breakfast for dinner then. I think the kitchen can oblige.”

Sam checked the clock. The little digital light read 9:33 with the red PM spot ablaze.

She hadn’t been gone for two hours. She’d been gone fourteen.


End file.
